


On the Wind

by PrincessAutumnArcher



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Archer!Reader, Author is a sucker for Shakespeare and Icelandic Sagas, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Female Reader, Magic, Pre-Thor (2011), Puns & Word Play, Reader-Insert, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Shaking Up Asgard's Gender Roles, Slow Burn, Thor (Marvel) is a Good Bro, Trickster Loki (Marvel), Twelfth Night influences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-04-07 17:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19089997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessAutumnArcher/pseuds/PrincessAutumnArcher
Summary: Since childhood, you've dreamt of glory and winning a place in Asgard's halls of legend, pledging your skill with a bow to the service of your kingdom despite the barriers in place against you, a village girl expected only to become a good wife and mother. Fantasies of joining Prince Thor on adventures for sport and defending Asgard alike kept you awake through childhood and you refuse to abandon the pursuit of recognition as a warrior, so when Odin offers membership into the Warriors Three to the winner of an archery tournament, the decision to disguise yourself as a man, sneak away from home in the dead of night, and enter under a false name is an easy one.You had anticipated the danger associated with the risk of living a lie beneath the Allfather's nose. You should have anticipated the danger that the silver-tongued younger prince posed as well. His daggers are sharp, but so are his mind and tongue, and he wields them all with just as much skill. Secrets weave thick in the palace, and you are not the only one seeking something in return for a falsehood. Prince Loki may just be your undoing—or your salvation.





	1. An Emptying Quiver

The wind was mild today, nothing more than the gentlest of tugs against your arm. It was nearly intangible as you leveled your bow and drew back on the string, feeling the familiar stretch in the muscles of your chest and arms as you took aim.

The sun-worn yellow of the target’s center fell white under the sun, and you inhaled slowly, feeling the breath of the wind flow against your own. Slightly to the left, and up just a tad. Your position adjusted almost imperceptibly before three fingers released the bowstring and you sent the arrow flying, the vibration of your bowstring thrumming pleasantly down your arm.

A small smile curved your lips at the solid _thud_ of your shot embedding itself directly in the innermost circle of the target, but you wasted no time on trivial self-congratulations; you only had a certain amount of time on the royal practice range before the competition’s first round started, after all, and you had no intentions of squandering a single, precious second.

Turning to the side of the range, you caught the eye of the boy waiting by the curious wooden mechanisms that made this range so special; he nodded sharply and yanked down one of the handles, then cranked another rapidly until the groan of gears met your ears. Raising a hand briefly in thanks, you turned back and sighted down the range, your hands moving fluidly through the task of drawing another arrow and resting it over your bow, fingers ready to pluck it into notched position over the string.

The action was as natural to you as breathing by now, and you took a certain comfort in that familiarity as you stared down the verdant range at the target. The wooden circle was now slowly moving around the metal circle it was mounted on, spinning steadily as well. The feathered fletching of your earlier shot bobbed gently with the motion of the wood its shaft was rooted in, and you bit your lower lip as you squinted past the distraction.

The wind had picked up slightly, angling downwards now. This did not escape you as you raised your bow again and took aim, shifting the resting point of your arrow to line the final resting spot of your shot up just above your previous one.

The twang of your bowstring sang a second later; you tipped your bow forward as the arrow soared from your grasp, leaning forward to follow its flight. Your breath hitched as the metal tip sank in a bit lower than you had wanted, but you relaxed as you reassured yourself that the second arrow had found purchase in the wood of the target rather than nicking your first. Now if ever, you could not spare the coin or time to repair an arrow, let alone scramble for a replacement in your quiver if you had—Norns forbid—split one.

Another wave to the boy and the target’s path changed so that it moved smoothly around the perimeter of a triangle; you exhaled, your own breath hot on your lips, and took aim, all too aware of the sun’s quickening journey across the sky.

Your next shot thudded well into the target, and so did many of the ones following that one, but none of the small bursts of satisfaction were enough to quell the coiling dread and anxiety in your stomach when you finally went to collect your arrows and inspect the holes peppered into the target. The wind had been kind to you today, but there was no guarantee that nature would repeat its generosity during the tournament, when you needed its blessing the most.

You had shot during less than ideal conditions before, you reminded yourself as you walked tersely back to the campground Odin had allowed to be set up outside the palace gates, bow grasped tightly in one hand while the other rested near the quiver dangling at your hip as you navigated through clusters of people and tents. There had been all those months of learning to shoot while the winds howled and spat swirling leaves at you. There had been the hunt last autumn, when a late, vengeful tempest had borne down on the forest while you and a handful of other hunters from your village had been in it, and you had shot a boar through the eye while being pummeled by rain and roaring storm winds.

 _Much more a lucky shot than a skillful one_ , a malicious voice whispered tauntingly in a corner of your mind, _and you didn’t kill it. Ivar did, while you sat behind a tree and broke two arrows on tree bark because your hands were shaking too badly to shoot straight._

Your lips pressed into a thin line and you shook your head vigorously as if that could dispel your thoughts, before pushing aside the flap that gave your tent some semblance of privacy and ducking in. Once the fabric rustled back into place behind you, you allowed yourself a sigh, drooping down as tension rushed up from the pit of your stomach.

You caught sight of the small vial of oil, pot of wax, and soft cloth you had set out earlier that morning as you set your bow down by the supplies, and firmly promised yourself that you would care for the instrument before you slept. For now, however, your stomach adding a complaint of hunger to the apprehension already plaguing you, and you hoped that addressing the former would lead to a similar amelioration in the condition of the latter.

Your bound chest was beginning to vocalize its discomfort as well, especially the upper ribs where you had wrapped the cloth a bit too tightly that morning, but you pushed the pain down and reached under the neck of your tunic to wrap your hand around the first amulet you had purchased once you had decided on entering the tournament. The second you hoped you wouldn’t need; better to have wasted your precious coin on it than become reliant, you told yourself sternly.

The amber stone beneath your fingers pulsed with warmth as you whispered the command word the old woman you’d acquired it from had taught you, and you craned your neck to watch bemusedly as the soft flare of light it had emitted in response faded, taking the warmth with it. That sight never failed to fascinate you, though you had seen it time and time again since you’d bought the amulet; seiðr was a foreign concept to you, but what you did know of it enthralled you, with its promise of making things be other than what they were, and bewitching the senses. It was stupid, and you would never admit it aloud, but the world needed more of that simple wonder—or at least, it would not be unwelcome.

With one last glance over the interior of your tent to memorize the layout of your possessions, you exited once more, running your hand over the flap of fabric and trying to hide the small thrill that ran through you as the tiny embroidered Yggdrasil laid out in the corner of the cloth thrummed with power, matching the symbol painted on the polished amber dangling from your neck.

 

Your things would be safe under the protection of the divine ash, but you still hurried through the dusk to reach one of the camp’s main fires, where servants from the palace were doling out bowls of thick porridge and skyr. You had arrived slightly late despite your growling stomach’s insistent spurring, and there were only a few men still eating around the warmth and light of the fire; despite your disguise and the fact that in the past day, you had suffered no unwanted advances from your fellow competitors, you still felt a lingering sense of wariness, and hurried to take the proffered food from the girl who held it out to you.

Your hand brushed hers as you took the fired clay vessels, and you smiled down at the girl; she seemed a few years younger than you and her braids reminded you of the apothecary’s daughter from back home, despite the resigned, weary disillusionment in this girl’s eyes and bent frame. Her eyes met yours and immediately she stiffened, snatching her hands back as if afraid you would chop one off. Your brows knit together for a moment as you stared, perplexed, before you remembered how you were disguised. You may not have made the most intimidating man in the world, but the fact that a balled-up rag stuffed into your trousers and strips of cloth wrapped around your chest could render you capable of causing such a reaction elicited warring sentiments of relief, pride, and disgust.

Your smile dropped and the girl flinched; now you noticed that her partner, a tanned boy about her age, was eyeing you with trepidation, his hands halfheartedly stirring the pot of porridge in an effort to disguise his wariness, and revulsion rose up like bile in your chest.

An apology stuck in your throat, words half-formed and never delivered as you chose instead to nod awkwardly at them both and walk back towards the fire, sitting and shoveling in the hot food as quickly as you could before returning the bowls and making a hasty exit back to your tent.

Your stomach sated, you checked to make sure the amulet’s ward had held fast—not that you could do much to check other than poke at the walls of your tent with an arrow and watch the resulting golden glow that spread from the point of impact like ripples in a pond. It was _pretty_ , you admitted to yourself, and would have been a welcome diversion, if you hadn’t had a bow to attend to.

You settled on the ground and took your bow into your hands before hesitating. Casting your glance a few times between the flap of your tent and your sleeping roll, you debated before caving to the pressure threatening to crush your chest. One firm yank later and you were unraveling the cloth from your chest, breathing deep for the first time all day as you rolled the rags back up into a cylinder so that you could more easily bind yourself again come morning. You cleared your throat and coughed a few times as you thought you felt your organs resettle, then set aside the roll of cloth and focused once more on your bow.

Waxing the string and oiling each curved arm of your bow proved to be a meditative experience as always, but your jitteriness refused to dissipate so easily, and you found yourself checking over each arrow in your quiver for cracks and other damage long after your bow lay gleaming, string smooth next to it. You yawned, your jaw popping loudly, and you elected to sleep despite the buzzing in your stomach. Tomorrow was a big day, after all, and you would need all your wits about you.

Your sleep featured scattered snippets of your hopes and fears; the sun shone warm on your back as Odin raised your arm high in the air and proclaimed you the winner of the archery tournament, but as you walked victorious to the Warriors Three, already imagining the surprise on your family’s faces when you sent home the prize money and news of your new position in Asgard’s elite force, an arrow sang through the air and struck you. The pain of the shaft spearing you through the ribs spiraled in intensity, wracking through your body as more arrows filled the air and you fell to your knees under the whining cacophony of bowstrings—

Wind curled gently around your forearm and you pushed your bow against the airflow, a sudden peace stilling your breath. You released the string and your arrow shot forward in a perfect arc, but halfway to the target, the wind howled and snapped back towards you; your mouth opened in a silent scream as you found yourself frozen, able only to stare at the wicked sharp tip of your own arrow as it sped towards the center of your forehead—

You jolted awake, a film of sweat clinging to your skin. At some point during the night you had managed to kick your bag over, in turn tipping the rolled-up cylinder of cloth you were using to bind your chest flat and sending it spooling out across the ground.

Squinting in the half-darkness, you crawled semi-reluctantly out of your warm indent and began rerolling the cloth, gripping the fabric more tightly than necessary. From the dense darkness in your tent and the quiet surrounding you, there were hours still before sunrise. Your breathing slowed and shallowed as you ran a clammy hand over the tent wall closest to you, watching the soothing golden ripples assure you of some measure of protection.

You should have slept again, but the nerves writhing in the pit of your stomach pushed you to your feet. You slipped out of your tent, feet padding quietly over the ground as you told yourself that a brief walk and some fresh air would do you good.

Night cast calm over the campsite, with only the rustling of wind over wood and earth to color what had been bustling with people just hours earlier. You breathed deeply as you wove through tents, wandering towards the edge of the camp where moonlight gilded the grass.

Only when the low thrum of nature split and wove into the cadence of speech did you realize with a heart-stopping pang of horror that your chest was unbound, the rag ball was very decidedly _not_ between your legs, and you were very visibly not a man at the moment. You turned hastily and headed back the way you had come; the murmurs were approaching, and now you could hear two distinct voices. One seemed vaguely familiar, as though you had heard the rise and fall of its owner’s intonation before, and the other carried higher pitch—and snappy wit, you noticed as the voices neared.

Your foot caught on an uneven patch of ground and you stumbled, kicking the ground loudly enough to be heard though you swallowed your cry just in time. The voices paused and you darted behind the nearest tent, barely daring breathe.

The conversation resumed, but your spine still prickled, and for good reason; two figures entered your view and you shuffled further into the shadow of the tent, trying to keep yourself as hidden as possible. You recognized the mussed red beard and stout build of Volstagg as he motioned towards his companion— _ah, yes, you’d heard him earlier near the archery range, joking with Fandral_ —but it took you a bit longer to place the other figure.

Dark hair fell unbound past their shoulders; as Volstagg turned, moonlight illuminated the curve of a trim waist and the bloom of hips under a maroon cloak and your eyes grew wide as you finally placed a name to their yet unseen face, aided by the sigil stitched into the hem of the garment. The hazel of Lady Sif’s eyes glinted with good-natured annoyance as she retorted to Volstagg’s latest quip. Neither she nor Volstagg’s signature weapons hung from their hips, but you weren’t surprised by the glimpse you caught of moonlight glinting over the pommel of a knife as her cloak fluttered with a shrug.

Lady Sif…your lips had stretched into a wide, upturned ring of mingled excitement and disbelief at the sight of your secret idol. Tales of her adventures with Thor and the Warriors Three had allowed embers of hope to burn quietly in your soul when surrounded by scoffing at your foolish dream of one day becoming a shield maiden in your own right, winning glory and protecting your people, regarded as an equal to the prince and his band of heroes. And here she was, walking so close that in a few seconds, you could reach out and touch her shoulder.

The realization came with a new wave of fear; discovery now would mean more than meeting your idol—you’d have to concoct an explanation for your presence and you were not so hopelessly devoted to labor under the illusion that Sif would vouch for you based on any sisterly affection for a stranger.

“Forget archery, Odin should see who in Asgard can stand more than a minute under Hogun’s stare. That proves more about a warrior’s worth to join us than shooting—”

“Odin is our king,” Sif cut Volstagg off sharply, her eyes narrowing as she gave him a pointed look. “The Allfather is wise. He would not have offered membership into the Warriors Three through an archery tournament if he did not see reason to.”

There was an odd twist to her last sentence, and it did not escape Volstagg. He stopped walking and you nearly sighed in relief; they were but a handful of paces from your hiding spot. Sif turned to face him and you strained your ears to pick out what came next.

“If the Warriors Three is meant to become the Warriors Four, why not appeal to Odin? You’ve joined us in all but formality, and despite all the blathering Fandral does, none of us would object—and Thor would no doubt find it commendable.” Volstagg’s voice was soft despite his joke, his face gentle as he placed a wide hand on Sif’s shoulder.

She tensed, her jaw working as she replied, “You know why.”

Silence stretched over them for a long second before Volstagg dropped his hand from Sif’s shoulder. Her spine remained ramrod straight as she spoke. “I will die a warrior’s death someday, and stories will be told of the day that comes to pass. Songs will be sung of Sif, one of the fiercest warriors Asgard has ever known, and of the men whose bones lie underfoot because they dared think me frail or weak. Because they thought of me as a woman before a warrior. But I will die a woman and a warrior, and Odin himself cannot change my fate. I have proven wrong those who scoffed at me. Perhaps in Valhalla we can bear the same shield.”

She turned and walked swiftly past you, the set of her jaw like iron. You watched, wide-eyed and with bated breath, as Volstagg stood there a few moments more, looking after Sif with an expression of something like mourning, before turning himself and walking back the way he had come.

You waited a few minutes after the sound of footsteps had fallen to silence to be sure, despite the cramp beginning to build in your thighs, before straightening and hurrying back to your own tent, your mind buzzing with what you had heard—and the implications it held for your own life. You had known that Asgard took female warriors as jests, of course—a few particularly crude snipes about the royal Valkyries of myth came to mind—but you had never truly pondered why Lady Sif had not joined the Warriors Three, always assuming that she was too independent, too strong, too great of a warrior for even that elite force. Never had you thought that it was expressly forbidden that a woman join their ranks.

Anger rose up in your chest, hot and vitriolic, but it was all too quickly tempered by terror; even if you managed to win the tournament, the danger would not cease. You wouldn’t be able to just rip away your bindings and shake the rags from your trousers to meet a band of welcoming new comrades—if your true identity was discovered, your new life would end before it ever began.

You were already pushing the limits of Odin’s mercy by disguising yourself and entering the tournament under a false name—and a falsified body, as it were. You had assumed that this little, innocent version of trickery would be forgiven once you had proven yourself as an archer, but revealing yourself as a woman who had _flouted_ the rules of entry and Odin’s own orders was surely nothing lighter than a lifetime in prison, if you were lucky enough to escape the executioner’s blade. The Allfather was wise, yes, but he was also a king quick to punish slights, and you were fairly sure that presuming to make the king look like a fool would be considered a slight.

It took a long while for sleep to come, but at least the few more hours you won were untroubled by the turmoil in your mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This was originally intended to be a silly little oneshot, but my muse got away from me and here we are, uprooting Asgard's misogyny and screaming in the face of MCU canon. I'm very excited to share the rest of this journey with Loki with all of you, and I hope you enjoy the ride. (Bonus points to those who spot all the references in this fic, I love Norse mythology, Icelandic sagas, and the Bard too much to leave them out.)  
> Don't fret, Reader will meet Loki soon—kudos to whoever can spot him first!


	2. Straight Shots and Misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which anticipation and ale prove to be quite the enhancer of direct communication, and the prince does you a horrible favor.

You woke as the sun rose, painting the inside of your tent with tea-stained light as the sun shone through the rough, green-brown fabric. As you weighed the roll of cloth in your hand, you debated abandoning the tournament altogether and running far, far away from the palace. But where would you go? Home, returning in disgrace with nothing to mollify the fear and anger your disappearance was sure to have caused? You could not settle elsewhere or wander Asgard, not with the shame and guilt of this whole stupid venture weighing down on you.

To the tournament it was, then, and may Frigga’s blessing be upon you.

Chest firmly flattened against itself and your underclothes stuffed beneath your trousers, you picked up your bow, the solid, shining wood comforting in your hand, and strapped on your quiver before shoving a strip of dried meat in your mouth and heading to the communal fire for food, chewing aggressively as you went.

You were grateful that the girl who had been handing out food the night before had been replaced this morning by another servant from the palace, a thin boy with a dusting of freckles over his nose, although the boy from last night had reprised his station. He shot you nothing more than a passing glance, however, as you joined the line and waited for your skyr.

You breathed easier after wolfing down the contents of the bowl, but your heart was still pounding during the walk to the archery range. It had been a relatively quiet trip the past two days, when only competitors had been traveling between the two places, but today the sectioned-off path was absolutely bursting with people and sound; guards lined the perimeters, silent and ever-watchful as Asgardians in vibrant finery milled about, excited chatter filling the air. Competitors made up a good portion of the crowd as well, though they, like you, were contributing more to the motion and less to the noise, quietly pushing through to the green range.

You caught sight of Fandral, arms draped over the shoulders of a pair of women, and Lady Sif a few feet behind him, talking animatedly to—by the Norns, Prince Thor was standing there, broad shoulders shaking as he laughed with your idol. You had grown with stories of the pair’s escapades; as a child, you had imagined (more than once, you admitted to yourself) befriending them and joining in their adventures. You must have been gawking, because as you passed, Prince Thor nudged Sif and gestured in your direction; she turned briefly to look, one eyebrow arching before she turned back dismissively to the prince. A flush prickled your cheeks as Prince Thor grinned, his eyes catching yours as he shrugged jestingly, and you realized that the prince had taken you for some besotted would-be suitor of his friend. You wondered if he knew of her anguish over the prize of the tournament.

When you finally made it to the range, you joined yet another line of competitors, this time to receive a number; your hands shook more than you would have liked as you pinned it to your jerkin and you inhaled as deeply as your bandages would allow in a futile attempt to slow your thumping heart. You settled on a shaded patch of grass and waited for your number to be called, squinting under the sun at the crowd milling about.

You spotted the other members of the Warriors Three scattered on the lawns outside the range: Volstagg was chortling as he broke bread with a bearded man wearing the armor of the Einherjar, while Hogun sat nearby with a polishing cloth and naked blade in his lap, his grim countenance extending the intimidating aura he exuded.

A horn sounded, the clear summons preceding a list of numbers. A man by the entrance to the shooting booths rattled off the numbers a second time and the crowd of competitors quieted until all twenty men in the first batch of competitors had taken up their positions on the lanes.

The horn sounded again; you waited silently as the twang of bowstrings filled the air like some dissonant chord, lips pursing together as the thudding of arrows finding their marks followed. It was impossible to tell how many of those hits had been successful; the spectating crowd’s elation and disappointment mingled in a giant block of cries. Your expression began to mirror Hogun’s as the sun beat down on your back and your worries threatened to choke you. In an attempt to distract yourself, you scanned the crowd again, noting the absence of the Warriors Three and the prince. They were probably seated in one of the viewing boxes mounted above the range, you reasoned, with the rest of the royal family.

Your face shifted to pensive as you wondered if the younger prince would have joined them. Tales of Prince Thor were steeped in glory, but the stories you had heard of Prince Loki bathed in far darker things; you had heard whispers of his careless cruelty and savagery in battle, how he broke enemies down with their own minds before slicing them to ribbons. _Silvertongue_ , you had heard a visiting merchant say of him once, before another had scoffed and corrected him: _Serpent-tongue_. The quick peace treaty Asgard had reached with Álfheim after Odin sent a negotiation party including the prince did suggest that his tongue was as skilled at ending conflicts as the daggers he was rumored to favor—and of course, there were the rumors of his involvement in negotiations where his tongue came into use in _other_ ways, but you disliked those retellings, as delightfully scandalous as they were. They seemed the type of tales to have been exaggerated and inflated by a tankard or two too many at the tavern where they had been told, even if there were grains of truth buried at the heart of it all. In any case, an event like this tournament seemed unlikely to hold much interest for Asgard’s Dark Prince; he was certainly no fixture with the Warriors Three, and his appearances with his brother had always been ceremonial.

All too soon, your number was being called and you scrambled to your feet, striding over to the range with a confidence you wished you felt. As you entered one of the shooting booths, however, a thrill of excitement and anticipation glided over your spine despite your nerves; archery was a means of survival for you more often than not, but that didn’t dampen your love for it, and here you were, sighting down the same range that your heroes practiced on. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined such a thing.

You scanned the stands for no particular reason; it wasn’t as if you were expecting a familiar face, unlike some of your fellow competitors who waved or saluted lovers, parents, siblings, and children in the crowd. You did spy the Allfather and Allmother, flanked by the two princes in their box at the end of the range—odd to think that you’d be shooting in the direction of the royal family—and swallowed your rising apprehension. The Warriors Three were in the spectating stands as well, joking with each other between comments on the crowd and the archers. A slight pang twinged in your heart as you realized that Lady Sif had no seat with her friends; she sat instead just to their periphery, surrounded by a few of Queen Frigga’s ladies-in-waiting, spine unnaturally straight and tight smile threatening to crack as she made polite conversation with her neighbors. She looked…not uncomfortable, exactly, but her sleek ponytail and polished armor set her aside from their unbound curls and diaphanous dresses.

Some tiny part of your mind wondered if Lady Sif had ever stood where you were now before the horn blew and you snapped back to the present, suddenly hyper-aware of everything surrounding you.

“Archers, stand ready!”

You raised your bow and drew back your first arrow, the familiar tension in your muscles grounding you as you lined up your shot. The air was still, and you prayed that no sudden gust of wind would divert your aim. _Frigga, please smile upon me._

“Fire!”

Your bowstring vibrated by your face in the wake of your arrow; your teeth sank into your lower lip as you watched the row of shaft and feathers fly, drawing in a ragged breath of relief only when your own shot sank home, burying itself deep in the center of the target. A servant peeked in moments after to tell you how many points you had earned before popping back out, presumably to move on to the next booth.

That first round passed quickly, pleasantly even, after you allowed yourself to fall into the comforting rhythm of loosing each shot and tipping your bow forward with the release. You were satisfied with your points, but whether or not it would be enough to advance you to the next stage of the tournament depended on how well or poorly everyone else shot. You glanced up at the royal family as you filed out of the shooting booths, squinting past the glare of sunlight on the Allfather’s eyepatch and imagining what it would be like to stand before him and lie.

A shiver ran down your spine and you tore your gaze away, keeping your head down as you walked over to the spectators’ stands, hoping to find an open spot to watch the competition.

 

You watched the next four rounds of competitors before your stomach grumbled loudly enough to force you from the stands in search of sustenance; following instructions you gained from a guard, you found yourself in a cheery tavern not far from the trading center of the city. Eight coppers bought you a bowl of hearty stew, a thick chunk of brown bread, and a tankard of pale ale. The robust, rich flavor of the stew was welcome after two days of skyr, porridge, and the occasional strip of dried venison, and you couldn’t quite bring yourself to regret the new lightness of your coin purse.

As you wiped the bottom of your bowl clean with the last of the bread, savoring the traces of honey and spice on your tongue, a now-familiar figure entered the tavern; Lady Sif, battle-ready hair swinging in the wake of her sure steps, slid into the unoccupied seat next to you and ordered a flagon of ale and bread.

You stared into your own tankard so hard you were sure your eyes would pop out from your skull. Beside you, the Lady Sif quaffed her drink and tore a chunk of bread from the loaf, chewing just as furiously as you had earlier that morning. You recognized the intensity in her frame, and another twinge of empathy and indignance on her behalf (and your own, by proxy) rose up in your chest.

You watched from the corner of your eye, not sure why you were so nervous. Surely a few words wouldn’t hurt, not if you were careful. Besides, when would you get another chance to speak to her? Yes, if you won the tournament, you would surely meet her again, but you dared not imagine such victory just yet. Another gulp of ale strengthened your resolve, and before you could talk yourself out of the idea, you turned to Lady Sif, cleared your throat, and tapped her formidable bicep.

“Lady Sif?”

She turned, half an artificial smile masking the terse set of her jaw, and you felt your stomach drop as her hazel gaze connected with your own. “I’m one of the archers in the tournament,” you began, the words tumbling out too quickly, your voice too high.

Suddenly, recognition flared in her eyes and you began to smile, hoping against hope that perhaps you hadn’t just dived headfirst into an early grave, but then a cold stoniness fell over her face as she told you in a voice that bit like steel, “I remember you. You may have misunderstood earlier. I’m not looking for a suitor, and if I were, he’d have to do a bit more than enter an archery tournament to win my consideration.”

Shock filtered in through your ears as she turned back to her food, clearly indicating the end of your attempt at conversation. By the Nine, that had _not_ gone as you had hoped. Your instinct for self-preservation fell short of the bruised pride and frustration that followed your shock, however, and you heard your voice— _deeper now, thank the gods_ —ring out:

“Lady Sif, I don’t seek to court you.”

She turned again, exasperation and annoyance coloring the lift of her eyebrow, but you continued despite the hammering pressure in your ribcage.

“I seek the prize King Odin offers for winning the tournament, nothing more. I simply wanted to tell you how I—my sister,” you caught yourself, “has admired you since she first heard of your ferocity and skill.”

You forced yourself to hold Lady Sif’s eyes, although the task grew easier as you continued, fist balling at your side as emotion began to seep into your speech. “She dreams of being a shield maiden, of charging into battle for Asgard and slaying monsters as you do, my lady. When our mother gave her mending, she taught herself to whip stitches and cloth together more quickly than any other girl in our town, just so that she would have time to join me and spar. She never gave up on her training, even when ridicule reduced her to tears. I found her practicing swordplay and archery while the salt was fresh and flowing down her cheeks, and every time she told me that Lady Sif wouldn’t have cried, that Lady Sif would never give up on proving them all wrong. You…you gave her hope that warriors could be women too.”

Lady Sif’s gaze had softened as you recounted your own history, albeit a very slightly altered version of it. You swallowed past a sudden lump in your throat and added more quietly, “If she could have come with me, she would want to thank you. Please accept it from me, in her stead.”

You didn’t bother trying to fabricate an explanation for why your sister had been left at home. Even if you hadn’t overheard her conversation with Volstagg the night before, Lady Sif’s expression, caught somewhere between a sympathetic smile and a scowl, told you that she understood why it would have been impossible.

“You’re a kind brother,” she said at last, toying idly with a crumb of bread. The corners of her eyes turned upwards as she smiled and added, “And your sister has the spirit of a warrior. I appreciate her thanks, but they are unnecessary. She would have made a fine shield maiden without my stories—if she ever comes to the city, she will be welcome to spar with me.”

You smiled, bowing your head as you struggled to keep your composure. The promise of a spar was kind, but you knew it had to be an empty one…nevertheless, Lady Sif’s words warmed you. She reached into a pouch dangling from her waist and drew out a small metal disc made of the same silvery gold as her armor, much thicker than a coin and slightly larger in diameter. A loop of braided purple cord dangled from a ring affixed to the back; Sif slipped a finger through the loop and pulled so that the disc rested flush against her skin, revealing her personal runic seal carved into the metal.

A gloss wavered over your vision as she held it out to you, pressing it into your palm. “Give this to her as proof that her brother brings more than a pretty story to bolster her spirits.” She leant forward, clasping your shoulder as she whispered conspiratorially in your ear, “And if she doesn’t receive it, I’ll personally see to it that whoever is responsible for keeping Asgard’s second-strongest shield maiden from meeting the first receives due punishment.”

She clapped you on the shoulder and stood with a grin. “Good luck in the tournament.” And then she was gone, only the solid facets of the seal in your hand proving that you hadn’t simply downed too much ale and dreamt the entire thing.


	3. The Game Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle of wits after victory on the range, a beautiful woman, and everything on the line. What more can a hero ask for?  
> (Probably to stop worrying about a prince ordering your execution for conspiracy against the crown, but you suppose that'd be pushing your luck.)

It was early evening by the time the horn’s call summoned you once more to the range; torches had been lit along the green, casting flickering shadows over the crowd as the sunset spilled the last of its lurid warmth over the darkening sky. Of the immense swath of men who had turned out for the tournament, only a hundred remained, and now you waited for the final tallying of points.

The sudden echo of a hammer on wood snapped your head up from where you sat; a guard was nailing two sheets of paper to the wide trunk of a tree near the gate. As soon as he finished the task and walked back to the palace, men flooded the space, whoops and cries of jubilation and dejection alike destroying the silence in seconds. You ran to join the moshing crowd, shouldering through as best you could until you were close enough to make out the lines of text.

You scanned the ink as quickly as you could while being jostled from every side, one hand clutching your coin purse out of learned caution while your free elbow jutted out to stabilize your position. Not your number, not yours— _there._

A raw shriek of euphoria ripped itself from your throat and you spun away, tearing from the crowd to jump into the air, a wild grin stretching your lips uncontrollably. A few of the men who hadn’t made it to the second stage, judging from the way they lay dismally on the ground, bows cast aside, glanced at you sourly, but you were surrounded by enough men celebrating boisterously that the judgement slid off you like water from an otter’s pelt.

Third place. Third place, and you hadn’t needed to even _think_ of reaching for the magic coiled in the second stone hanging around your neck. You had felt it pulsing lazily above your clavicle, felt its menacing promise to slip gently through your veins given just one word, that false seiðr borne from herbs and polished orbs from Vanaheim’s soil, but dormant it had remained. You had outshot ninety-seven men by virtue of your own skill alone, and by the Norns, that satisfaction burned clean and beautiful in your heart.

This had been only the first stage out of three, you reminded yourself in a vain attempt to dampen the glee running like lightning through your body. The men who remained as competition had also earned their spots and would not be easy to defeat. A single mistake, the tiniest of miscalculations in compensation for the wind or sun could spell defeat. Yet even this knowledge was not enough to stop you from beaming as you strode back to your tent to leave your bow and quiver under Yggdrasil’s protection before returning to the campfire for food.

The sight of Prince Loki standing outside your tent, however, was more than enough to wipe the victorious smile from your face.

He was leaning back, his weight slanted casually over his heels as he surveyed the flap of your tent, head tipped back and shoulders dropped just enough to look regal, even in the most mundane of poses. His head cocked towards you—not nearly enough that his line of sight swept over where you had halted in your tracks upon seeing him, but your heart pounded anew anyways. The prince gazed into the distance beyond the corner of your tent for a few seconds before a smirk curled across his lips, deepening the shadows cast by his cheekbones as he walked away casually, if you could call the haughty lift of his steps casual.

Your breath escaped you in a heavy, drawn-out sigh as you watched the prince walk away, the sun’s rays brushing a gleam of inky green over his dark hair. Unease wound around your spine as you continued to your tent, forcing yourself to walk normally despite the suspicion stiffening your muscles. Yggdrasil’s protection was still rippling gold on the walls as you entered, but you couldn’t shake your feeling of disquiet at Prince Loki’s appearance.

Could he suspect you? You had been so careful not to draw any unnecessary attention to yourself, although you supposed that your recent run-in with Sif was a bit unusual. You ran through the events of the past three days in your head, trying to think of any reason that Prince Loki would have to suspect you of anything. You hadn’t even seen him until earlier that day, and from a distance at that.

A sudden, high-pitched scream threw you from your thoughts; your hand flew to the handle of your hunting dagger at the sound as the hairs on the back of your neck rose. The sound had come from the campsite, but you couldn’t tell how close. Naked blade in hand, you approached the flap of your tent cautiously, pausing for a moment before pushing the fabric aside.

Frantic footsteps rushed in your direction, giving you a few seconds of warning before a woman careened around the corner, flinging up dust in her wake as she scrambled, wide-eyed and panting, towards you—no, you realized, she wasn’t running towards you, but away from something. Her eyes fell upon you, a wild desperation evident in her gaze, and before you fully registered the sound of heavy footfalls and deep, angry voices— _was that the clank of armor?_ —growing louder in pursuit or what exactly you were doing, your hand had closed around the woman’s upper arm and pulled her into your tent.

Once the fabric had fallen once again, you turned to the woman, eyebrows drawn low and together, finger held firmly to your lips as a demand for silence. Her chest heaved as she nodded in compliance, and you offered her a thin smile, your own ears still straining to make out any hint about the outside situation. Her already pale face blanched of all color as a gruff voice shouted just outside the tent and you tensed, but the sound of the shout’s owner swearing and moving past shot relief through you, and you directed your attention back to the woman before you.

Your eyes flickered over her as you fell into the routine of checking for tears, bruises, and cuts made familiar and dreaded all the same by nights of waiting for sweet Sigyn to return when you knew her father had been too long at the tavern, nights of springing up once you caught a glimpse of her honey-hued hair and seizing her by the shoulders to keep a tight hug at bay until your assessment had been completed and you could clutch her quivering body to you as if to swallow her sobs.

Your mouth twisted and a drop of dark, furious dismay hit the pit of your stomach now as you took in the rips at the neckline of this woman’s dress, the purpling handprints blooming over her exposed collarbone, and the disarray of her dark, curling hair as it fell over her face, ruined braids doing their best to hide the pooling of liquid in her eyes.

As her teary eyes met yours, the continued presence of sheer terror gleaming nakedly in pinpricks of black centered in wide rings of glacial celadon, now fixed on your face, caused your brow to furrow in confusion. You made to move ever so slightly forward, lips parting to tell her that she was safe now, and your inner thigh brushed against the packed rags stuffed into your underclothes. You froze as everything clicked into place in your mind.

Suddenly, her mute horror made sense, and you released her arm as if burned, stepping back and holding your hands up in the air before you. Some of the terror drained from her, but she remained tense, eyes darting down to your dominant hand for a moment before returning to your face. You followed her gaze to meet the silver glint of sun on your blade, and sheathed the weapon slowly, though you kept the sheath strapped to your body.

Keeping your hands in view, you watched her carefully, face burning as you became suddenly and unbearably hyper-aware of just how thoroughly you had raked your gaze over this woman’s body in your concern and how tightly you had gripped her flesh, forgetting yourself entirely in distress you had cultivated through years of fearing a night when Sigyn returned in more than simple tears.

But this woman was not Sigyn, and you were not yourself. You were a man, had to be a man, and the man that you were had just snatched this woman into his tent as she ran from a soldier (for there was no mistaking the even, grinding scrape of fine Asgardian plate during a soldier’s run) apparently intent on having her, all but ordered her to be silent, and proceeded to hold her far too close and far too tightly while his eyes roved over her in a manner you could concoct no excuse for.

“I mean you no harm,” you offered at last, the carefully measured cut of truth weighing dangerously heavy on your tongue. She remained silent, wariness settling over her fear as she tried to subtly slip her hair over her shoulder to cover more of her exposed chest, and you continued, speaking the way you would to a frightened animal despite the bitter weight of the lie, “I have a sister, close to your age.”

Your head spun with the acrid bile that rose in your throat at the mixture of truth and fiction, but you held the woman’s eyes and your voice steady, observing with an odd, bittersweet blend of guilt and relief as the tautness slowly seeped from her body.

“She was learning to be a healer—not with seiðr, just with the medicines which Asgard’s soil gives. Her mistress kept her late at night sometimes, looking after patients or keeping watch over some poultice or another, but she was careful, and I waited for her every night. Then one night, he did too.” You paused, drawing in a deep breath, praying that she couldn’t see through your façade to the frantic beating of your heart. “She ran, and I thank the Norns every day that she made it in through the door.” You gestured loosely with your chin towards the woman, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning back on your heels in a shallow imitation of the assurance you had seen in Prince Loki.

“He tore her dress like that too, and when I found that he’d laid his hand on her, I swore I’d kill him.” You let the words fall into the silence between you, let your lies sink through the air until they felt heavy enough to believe and you could tie up your words with a few grains of truth. “You’re not my sister, but I’m not so heartless that I care about women’s fear only when the same blood runs in our veins.”

The corner of her mouth tilted up at that, and she spoke for the first time. “You address a woman’s fears well, for a man.” Your pulse skyrocketed and you stared at her, just managing to keep your jaw from going slack in shock and alarm. She laughed, stepping farther into your tent, rubbing a hand over her arm. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t mean to suggest anything, I’m sure you please women just as well as you comfort them.”

She delivered the disguised insult so lightly that if you hadn’t caught the roll of her eyes as she tipped her head down in a false show of demureness, you might have missed the steel under the silk of her voice. If you had truly been who you pretended to be, you might have been insulted, but as it was, her words gave you an idea.

“I can’t tell if you’re expressing interest or just want to make sure I’m aware that you think I’m terrible at comforting women,” you said slowly, walking towards her until you reached your earlier position, your knees brushing the folds of her skirt.

She didn’t move, just smiled sweetly. “You seem like a good man, but you’ll have to figure that one out yourself.”

This close, the color of her eyes was distracting; not quite green and not quite blue, and with a strange crystalline quality, they reminded you of the sea, constantly shifting between light and shadow. She was beautiful, you had to admit, pushing down a sudden, unexpected surge of jealousy, and you couldn’t help but feel just a tiny bit of regret that you couldn’t tell her the truth. There was something intriguing about her snarky wit, and you couldn’t decide if you feared or admired her intelligence.

She broke your shared gaze, looking around shrewdly, eyes lifting from one spot to another as she surveyed your possessions. Alarm speared you as her gaze lingered on the bag that contained the sachets of herbs you took religiously to stop your monthly bleed and prevent your belly from swelling, should something unwanted come to pass and stop the blood for you. Below those lay the Vanir herbs that allowed you control over your second amulet’s seiðr. Your pulse quaked, apprehension thundering in your eardrums.

“What are you doing?”

Your voice came out harsher and more strident than you had anticipated; you winced, but she only glanced at you and replied,

“Trying to see if your healer sister can _comfort_ me by her brother’s proxy.”

Before you could demand clarification, she spoke again, more softly. “It hurts more than I thought it would. I…it’s either healing herbs or dinner.” As if realizing how much she expected from a stranger, she added, “I will compensate you for your help.”

Her nose wrinkled as she said it, and her tone was odd, as if she weren’t used to the feeling of the words in her mouth, but you supposed that she could also just have felt uncomfortable upon realizing the innuendo she had unwittingly slipped into. You did pause before answering; you had herbs that would help the bruising beginning to form a trail from her throat to somewhere below her shoulder, but you had packed them as an emergency reserve for yourself. If something were to happen, the absence or presence of the tiny bundle would have quite the influence on your state of misery.

Finally, your sympathy won out and you sighed, nodding. Your conscience wouldn’t allow you to simply kick her out in her current state, but a dreadful feeling was growing in your stomach. She was dangerous, whether she knew it or not.

She smiled faintly and murmured her thanks as you crossed the floor to kneel by your pack and dig out your medicine bag, careful to keep its contents hidden as you drew out the small packet you needed. You turned, herbs and waterskin in hand, and motioned for her to sit; unfortunately, she moved towards a bare spot near the wall to obey. Her skirt fanned out as she sat, nearly brushing the cloth wall, and your pulse hammered in your ears, speeding up as she adjusted her position, the extension of one leg bringing the tips of her toes dangerously close to the worn fabric.

You tipped the mouth of your waterskin to the pouch of herbs, trickling in just enough liquid to dampen the muslin and soak the herbs before you closed both vessels and rolled the herb pouch over the pommel of your dagger, grinding its contents into a paste under the heel of your hand.

When the herbs had reached the right consistency, you held the pouch up; she reached for it and you pulled your arm back, keeping it just out of her reach. Her eyes narrowed and you smiled, although it didn’t reach your eyes.

“Let’s barter your compensation,” you said, rolling the syllables of the last word slowly over your tongue. Her lips thinned and you hastened to continue, “I’ll give you the herbs, but you have give me your name, and answer some questions.”

“You said you would help me.” She lunged for the herbs, but you caught her shoulder and pushed her firmly back.

“And now I’m helping you, with conditions,” you retorted. “Name and honest answers to five questions, or no herbs.” She bristled, so you embellished your ultimatum. “These are the only herbs I have, and the only thing I brought that reminds me of my sister. You’re asking me for something of a sacrifice.”

Her slender fingers scratched shallow trenches in the earth, and you considered letting your hand drift to your dagger under the icy burn of her glare. Her jaw worked for a second longer before she exhaled heavily and her fists uncurled.

“Three questions.”

You rearranged your questions in your head, playing with the wording to fit your five queries into three. “Three questions and your name.” You dangled the bag closer, grinning at her snarl when you yanked it away from her lunging fingers again.

“My name is Lofn.”

You let out a bark of laughter despite yourself. “No wonder you resent my methods of comfort.”

She scowled and snatched the poultice from your grasp. As she dipped two fingers into the mixture and spread the paste over her throat and chest, you averted your eyes and asked the wall, “First question: what is Prince Loki like?”

You were taking a risk, opening with such a bald question, but you hoped that whatever shock came with the unexpected query would translate into an unguarded answer from Lofn. Prince Loki had come to your tent for a reason. If it was what you feared…

Lofn’s silence had allowed your tumultuous thoughts to darken your features as you lost yourself in thought, but as it stretched on you realized that its extension did not necessarily bode well for you. You slowly slid your gaze to her, startled to find the woman studying you pensively, seawater eyes half-lidded as her lips pursed.

You raised an eyebrow, but before you could repeat your question, she spoke, fingers absently dabbing at the mixture on her skin. “What makes you think I know him beyond formality?”

Her tone was light, but there was something forced about the casual lilt to her question. You allowed a grin to curve the corner of your mouth as you gestured to her, your hand tilting as you indicated first her filmy, juniper green dress before moving to the delicate gold bangles on her wrists and the remains of what had once been an intricately-woven braid in her hair.

“You wear his colors, in the style of the high court. That alone suggests enough, but to go on, your jewelry is fine, and your appearance doesn’t strike me as that of a laboring woman. Prince Loki is yet unmarried, yet unbetrothed—I mean no offense, but surely you must know of the prince’s…rumored reputation.”

She snorted, somehow managing to make it sound refined before a sly smirk curled over her lips. “You think me beautiful enough to be the Silvertongue’s consort?”

Your lips quirked. “Our deal involved you answering my questions, not me doling out compliments, Lofn.”

Her eyes darkened, but the smirk remained as she resumed her attentions to her bruises. “Prince Loki is deserving of that name, in any case. In my years at the palace I have seen him negotiate peace at his father’s side despite the best efforts of his brother to urge the Allfather and Asgard into war. He is dedicated to serving the realm, as he should be. A noble prince, even if the sun shines more often on the elder.”

Lofn’s eyes slanted at you, her teeth flashing white as she continued, “And if you wish for me to speak on his skill in bed, I’m quite sure that whatever giggling whispers you’ve heard pale in comparison to—”

“So you are his lover?” You cut her off before the warmth in your cheeks had the chance to burn.

Her eyes sparkled. “Excellent second question!”

Your eyes widened as you protested, “That was rhetorical!”

“Still a question.” Lofn waggled a finger at you and you fell silent, although her finger could do nothing against your vexed glare. “I serve Prince Loki and accompany him, although I hesitate to say that _love_ has much to do with our…arrangement.”

You avoided her gaze and the suggestion glimmering under her wording, turning your thoughts instead to the subject of your last question. Lofn’s clever ruse had set back your plan to distract her with a question demanding a lengthier response before returning to the princes. You would just have to improvise.

You opened your mouth, carefully working through the wording—

“Final question!” Lofn sang out gleefully, as if you needed the reminder. Her slim smile was all innocence as she looked to you expectantly, but devious delight danced in the depths of her eyes.

You grit your teeth before speaking carefully. Her earlier answer had barely given you anything about Prince Loki beyond what you already knew or assumed from rumors; you needed to know more about how the prince thought, and you needed the information without arousing more suspicion than you already had. Lofn already seemed to think you had an unusual interest in Asgard’s younger prince—maybe if you played off her assumptions…

“How similar are you and Prince Loki?”

You watched Lofn’s reaction carefully; her fingers and lips twitched almost imperceptibly as you asked the question. She blinked, the slightest of pauses before she fixed you with her gaze again telling you everything you needed to know about the verity of her answer before she opened her mouth to deliver it.

Her face was serious, porcelain skin smoothed in the absence of all levity as she told you, “Very. The prince and I share many traits.”

You were about to nod and thank her when a smile broke across her lips, illuminating her eyes with laughter, and she added, “We’re both unfairly attractive, charismatic, and—”

“Yes, yes, you’re perfectly matched for each other,” you cut her off with a dismissive wave of your hand, your mind already speeding through the information she had inadvertently given you. Lofn hadn’t been lying when she claimed similarity to the prince; the tiniest of slips in her façade told you that much. And while she and the prince (from what you had seen of him in person, anyways) couldn’t be denied their beauty, you were much more preoccupied with the parallels in their personalities.

Lofn was observant, and in a much more dangerous way than you had anticipated; her eyes were sharp, and she kept the secrets she saw filed away in her mind, ready to use—she had forced you into spinning more tales than you had expected, and remembered the details of your fiction with alarming accuracy. Her earlier trick to escape a full three questions was evidence enough of her cunning. If the prince was anything like her and if he’d truly found something of interest to entertain himself with you, you’d have to mind yourself with constant vigilance to avoid weaving yourself a trap.

With a sinking heart, you recalled another name you had heard attached to the younger prince: Loki Liesmith. How could you hope to fool a god whose craft lay in falsehoods?

The sudden touch of cool hands on your shoulders startled you from your thoughts; a gasp escaped you before you could swallow it and you found yourself looking into Lofn’s dubious expression as her hands grasped you firmly. One dark eyebrow arched neatly and she said, “No need to sound so disappointed.” A mischievous spark leapt into her eyes as she continued, “I’m sure Loki will be flattered by your adorable sense of devotion—”

You shoved her hands away and stood quickly as she dissolved into peals of laughter. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” you said gruffly, fighting down a dual sense of discomfort and relief at the success of your ploy. You doubted any serious troubles would arise if rumours that one of the competitors did harbor a secret affection for Prince Loki began to fly, but the stacked falseness of it all twisted uncomfortably in your chest.

Lofn stood as well, knocking dust from her skirt with the back of her hand. Her knuckles swept briefly against the wall of the tent as she reached around behind herself and you held your breath, careful not to let your eyes follow the shimmer of gold, but she didn’t seem to notice, occupied with making sure her clothing and person was presentable.

The thought sent another spike of alarm through you, and you grabbed her wrist as she made to leave; she whipped around, free hand coming up as if to claw you while her other twisted free of your grip. Her hand stopped inches from your face, and some useless part of your brain noted suddenly that her skin carried a faint, crisp fragrance of smoke and crushed ice.

Taken aback by the sudden speed of her reaction, it took you a moment to form the words you meant to speak: “Will you be alright on your way?”

She laughed, a sardonic edge settling over her features. “Do you really think that the prince would not see to it that any mark on my body is not repaid tenfold to those who dared put them there?” Her voice was dark, almost taunting. A halfhearted quip as to which prince she meant withered on your tongue under the glinting challenge in her eyes.

“Pay my respects to him,” you said instead, and she nodded before slipping out and sauntering away. You considered peering out to make sure she made it at least to the end of the row of tents safely, but by the time you mustered the presence of mind to push aside the flap and stick your head out into the early evening, Lofn was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! How do you think the mysterious Lofn might play into future chapters? Leave your theories, guesses, etc. down below!
> 
> In Norse mythology, Lofn is a goddess (attested by some to be one of Frigga's handmaidens) associated with forbidden love, absolution of guilt, and gentleness/kindness in Gylfaginning. Her name means "comforter", "the mild", or "loving", and is part of the root of the Old Norse word "lof", meaning permission as well as praise, hence my joke about her not appreciating the Reader's methods of comfort.


	4. Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Odin invites you to a feast, Loki listens to his mother, and the proof is in the pudding.

You were rearranging your pack when the Einherjar cleared his throat outside your tent not long after Lofn left, his shadow appearing in sharp, distorted relief on the wall; sudden fear bolted your feet to the ground for a moment before you pulled back the flap to reveal the origin of the silhouette.

His eyes fell to your shoulder for a moment before returning to your face and you realized that he had looked to the numbered patch still pinned to your jerkin. The sound of the false name you had registered for the tournament with caught your attention and you nodded, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. Apparently satisfied with this confirmation, the guard told you, “The king wishes to congratulate the top five archers from the preliminaries. You are to gather at the entrance to the range and join the Allfather to break the evening’s bread.”

Your immediate panic must have shown on your face, for the guard added with half a smile, “You have time to wash your face, if you hurry, but the Allmother seemed to believe that everyone in attendance would be more far interested in sharing tales than looks.”

You managed a weak, relieved smile in response and the man chuckled.

A few minutes later, you stood at the range, shifting your weight nervously from one foot to the other as you and the four other archers waited for your escort. You had sprinted to the stream close to the edge of the campsite and scrubbed your face, ears, and neck clean of dirt accumulated over the past three days, even managing to comb somewhat through your hair and force it into some semblance of neat cleanliness. You bit back a laugh as you looked around at your fellow archers; from the reddened skin and subconscious patting of hair and beard you were seeing, it seemed that you hadn’t been the only one to panic upon receiving Odin’s invitation.

A serving boy appeared, sconce in hand as he greeted your group. Quiet mutters and nods in response surrounded you as you followed him into the palace, trying not to stare as you entered.

 

Your stomach twisted in apprehension as you filed into the great feast hall, nervous energy buzzing through your limbs as you bent a knee to the stone beneath you and clapped a fist to your chest in a show of fealty and respect, eyes downcast. The thumping on either side of you indicated that you weren’t alone in doing so, and you felt a slight sense of pride at your memory of etiquette. Your mother would be thrilled, you thought wryly to yourself.

“Rise.”

Odin’s deep voice rumbled over you; you obeyed, lifting your gaze for the first time and immediately swallowing a gasp. The Allfather was still speaking, no doubt a congratulatory speech that you should have been paying rapt attention to, but the sight that met your eyes was one to feast on. A single banquet table, long enough for several men to lay on, had been brought out to the hall, lined with great oaken chairs and absolutely covered with an abundance of dishes. A robust fire crackled in the hearth, barring the chill of the night wind from the room and filling the it with the pleasant aroma of pine sap.

Odin presided from the head of the table as you had expected, with Queen Frigga at his right hand, and the princes at his left. To your great relief, Prince Loki’s regard swept right over you and the other four archers; he hid it well behind a polite smile, but disinterest leaked from his posture. The Warriors Three were in attendance as well, and you observed with no small amount of amusement that Volstagg’s platter was already piled high and his face lined with impatience. You were glad to see Sif had been invited as well— _the Allmother’s doing_ , you thought to yourself, noting Sif’s position beside the queen—and you traded a small smile with her as you caught her eye.

The exchange did not escape Prince Thor’s notice, and he let out a bellowing laugh, raising his mead high. “Congratulations, archers!” His eyes twinkled and you smiled at the genuine display of mirth on his face despite the sinking feeling in your chest. “Come, celebrate your feat! Tonight, we drink to you!”

A hearty cheer to his toast rose in response from those seated as they raised their glasses in kind and drank. If you hadn’t been studying him out of the corner of your eye, you would have missed Prince Loki muttering something that looked rather like “Congratulations, you summarized Father’s speech” and the following sarcastic eyeroll before he joined in the toast.

You raised a hand to muffle your poorly disguised laughter. You could see why Lofn liked Prince Loki—and why he liked her. They really were alike, you thought. It was a pity they both posed such a risk to you—your banter with Lofn, at least, had been enjoyable despite the stakes.

Your heart raced anew as Thor added, raising an open hand towards you, “My friend, you truly have proven yourself today!” Loki’s eyes darted to you, a sudden gleam of interest entering his gaze as Thor asked your name and place in the top five. You felt the intensity of the other archers’ eyes on you and did your best to ignore them as you delivered your alias and place, the barest hint of pride tinting your voice as you did despite your efforts to appear humble.

Thor beamed widely at you. “I believe that the Lady Sif would like to hear of your training routine. Neither I nor the Warriors Three favor a bow, so our adventures thus far…”

His voice faded to a low thrum in your ears as your heart dropped directly into the pit of your stomach. Your smile felt frozen to your face as you stared at the elder prince without seeing him. Off to your side, the archer who had come in first place in the preliminaries looked murderous.

He remembered you, and your stupid mooning over Sif. Odin’s beard, the crown prince of Asgard was trying to do you a favor (and an extremely generous one at that), but at the moment, the roaring of blood in your ears was making it insanely difficult to focus on remembering that this was a compassionate, well-intentioned act and not the Norns cackling wickedly over your life thread. The gaze of your fellow archers burned hotter, and you didn’t dare look at King Odin.

You watched, dazed, as Queen Frigga leant over and whispered something to Sif, who nodded with a knowing, obedient smile before sliding out of her seat and taking the one to her right, leaving an empty spot between her and the Allmother—and directly across from Prince Loki, who was now sporting a gleeful expression that reminded you all too much of a fox about to snap up a hare.

You hoped Lofn hadn’t mentioned you in detail. Her parting words rang again in your mind and you fought back a shiver—what if Prince Loki thought you had been the man to attack his paramour? Surely she wouldn’t have spoken so highly of the prince and with such affection if he were truly cruel…your thoughts raced before you concluded in a panic that if Lofn had seen the prince since her departure from your tent, she wouldn’t have knowingly thrown you to the wolves—although the inexplicably _predatory_ expression on Prince Loki’s face was certainly edging you towards that fear.

Sif made eye contact, her smile decidedly more fixed than it had been a few minutes earlier, and tilted her head slightly towards the empty chair. There was no refusing the invitation. Stiffly, as if following orders, you walked over and sat, hoping that the polished gleam of wood in the firelight would conceal the fact that your hands were sweating profusely.

King Odin’s eye swept over you and you fought the urge to shrink into your chair under the second of his unreadable scrutiny; apparently finding no fault glaring enough to derail the evening completely, he raised his own glass up and commenced the meal. As conversation began to fill the air, you took up your fork and shoved a chunk of roasted meat into your mouth, avoiding eye contact with anyone. Perhaps if you ate voraciously enough, you could avoid speaking, you reasoned wildly; the food was delicious, more so than anything you could remember eating in your entire life, and as you swallowed and hurriedly took another bite, you figured that at least shoving banquet dishes down your gullet all evening would be a pleasant experience for your taste buds.

Thor grinned at you amicably, his rugged, handsome face the very picture of merry masculinity as he opened his mouth to speak, and you realized that your plan was no more than delusion. “Where in Asgard do you hail from?”

The prince’s question was delivered innocently enough, but you faltered before responding as your neighbors’ heads swiveled to follow the conversation; the Allmother seemed cordially interested, as did Sif, but Prince Loki’s gaze bored into you despite the unruffled state of his expression. You thanked the Norns that the Allfather seemed to remain preoccupied with a conversation happening farther down the table.

You rushed to swallow, perfectly succulent mouthful of food turning into a painfully large lump as it made its way down your throat, and kept your eyes on Prince Thor’s unguardedly curious expression, ignoring the cold weight of his brother’s eyes as you fought the feeling of being studied and dissected.

“A small village in Hrafnkelsdalr, a few days’ travel from here,” you answered honestly, forcing yourself not to fidget with your cutlery. “I grew up in the valley, learned to shoot young. The surrounding forest gave me plenty of chances to practice with a bow. We have a hunt every Yule, and it’s tradition to have a bit of friendly competition amongst the hunters of each favored weapon. I lay my allegiance to the archers early,” you explained, tacking on an enthusiastic laugh at the end. You could feel yourself relaxing with the fond recollection of your home, and you weren’t sure if you were grateful or even more worried because of it.

The Allmother smiled gently as she sipped from your story and her mead. “If I am not mistaken, Hrafnkels Valley’s climate is very favorable for many medicinal herbs. Maegthen, in particular. Do you know it?”

She held her hand up over the table, fingers cupping the air gracefully before blooming outwards like the petals of some delicate flower. You watched, fascinated, as strands of golden light swirled in the center of her palm before forming an image of the short white petals and bulbous saffron centers that sprung up over the valley in spring. The soft scent of apricots and sunshine wafted to you as Queen Frigga allowed her seiðr to dissipate and the flower dissolved into motes of sparkling light.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you breathed, reluctantly lifting your gaze from the remnants of her magic. This was what _real_ magic looked like; the revelation came to you with a thrill, and suddenly you felt almost ashamed of the little protection trinket hanging around your neck, and definitely ashamed of the darker amulet below it. She smiled, eyes kind, and you ventured, “My village holds a festival when we harvest it, but I never knew the details of its use in healing.”

Thor took the opportunity to quip, “Yes, well, harvest festivals do tend to have more interesting activities going on to capture the attention. Can’t blame you for not burying your head in healing tents.”

Sif cut in, her teasing smile removing any sting from her words, “Thor, seeing as your _activities_ during harvest festivals lead to you ending up in need of healing, perhaps you should educate yourself on the subject.”

You laughed, _loudly_ , before you could stop yourself, but before mortification could shock you into an apology, Thor’s own bellowing laugh reassured you. Your smile widened and you felt some of the weight lift from your chest; your gaze drifted to Prince Loki, noting the amused crook on his lips before his eyes shifted to meet yours and you immediately diverted your gaze, kicking yourself mentally.

Prince Thor began recounting the tale of some beast he, Sif, and the Warriors Three had gone out to vanquish some autumn or another and you allowed yourself to be swept up in the retelling, nodding and laughing as he regaled the table.

It was nice to feel so buoyant again, floating in the easy pace of cheerful conversation. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined that you would be sitting at the Allfather’s table, joking with Sif and Prince Thor. But even the delighted warmth bubbling in your chest at your newfound camaraderie couldn’t distract you from the shrewd weight of Prince Loki’s calculating gaze.

He waited until you took a sip of mead to lean forward over the table, angling his cutlery downwards, as if about to speak to you. You swallowed the warm, comfortingly spiced liquid and paused, goblet still half-tipped at your mouth, for a beat. When no royal interrogation spilled forth from his smooth, semi-parted lips, you dared allow your eyes to flitter up and meet his; a bored, glassy regard returned your unspoken question and you quickly redirected your gaze to his brother, who was currently pantomiming a diminished version of the technique he had used to divest some foe of their spleen. You took a deeper gulp of your mead and allowed yourself to take some comfort in the warm, heady blend of sweetness and spice—

“Hrafnkelsdalr is quite a small village, and isolated by the valley, isn’t it? The city must be quite different,” Prince Loki mused, loudly enough to be audible to the rest of the table but with an intensity that told you his words had been meant for you alone. His tone retained its light cordiality, but something in the timbre of his voice darkened as he continued, “How do you like it? Have you met anyone… _interesting_?”

Startled by the sudden intimacy glimmering atop his words—had the speaker been anyone else, you might have dared call his tone _flirty_ —you coughed mid-swallow, the mulled spice of the mead veering abruptly from comforting to painful as the liquid shot down your windpipe instead of your esophagus, burning like Hel. Sif cast a fleeting, concerned glance at you before turning back to Prince Thor’s story at your hasty, nonverbal assurance that you were fine.

Barely managing to mutate your outright glare into a mild grimace before your eyes landed on him, your gaze darted to Prince Loki’s face. The blank boredom you’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by a sharp, glinting grin that did absolutely nothing to assuage your sudden, irrational fear that the prince would leap across the table and eat you alive.

In his eyes danced a familiar delight, the mirth in his celadon irises setting them alight with a certain devious spark—in fact, you could have sworn you had seen the exact same expression before, but the details of your fuzzy memory slipped through your fingers as you squinted at the prince. His eyes were such a strange, piercing color, but even that felt familiar…

Prince Loki’s razor-edge smile widened as if he could read your thoughts, the glint in his eyes darkened to something almost predatory, and everything suddenly clicked into place.

Lofn wasn’t his lover at all. Lofn _was_ Loki.

“ _You_!” you spluttered, fork clattering against your plate as you dropped it and pointed one shaky, accusatory finger at the prince.

The table fell silent, only the crackling of the great fires in the hall’s hearth filling the air.

Prince Loki had the audacity to pair the smugness in his seaglass eyes with a flattered gasp, leaning back in his chair and bringing one splayed hand delicately to his chest as if he were simply incapable of believing you could bestow such an answer upon him.

“Me?” Prince Loki’s voice was all airy, innocent surprise, his eyes widening in what appeared to be genuine disbelief but felt like savage mockery. His thin lips stretched into a dangerously charming smirk as his eyes returned to their normal proportions, that blasted chaotic delight surging high again. “Your prince appreciates the sentiment—”

“I only meant,” you nearly shouted in your desperation to salvage what you could of the situation ( _as if you really needed to draw any more attention to yourself_ ), “that the city is very _new_ , and fascinating, and that, er,” you fumbled in the midst of your interruption, suddenly realizing that you were still pointing rather aggressively at Prince Loki.

You dropped your hand hurriedly, very aware of how your outburst had attracted the attention of your neighbors; Sif’s hand tapped your knee pointedly under the table and you burst back into speech as you grasped that you had tapered off into embarrassed silence.

“It is an unspeakable honor to have been granted this meal with the royal family, _including yourself_ ,” you allowed yourself a hint of a snarl as you addressed Loki, although you were careful not to let it root too deeply in your facial expression, “and I forgot myself in speaking. Forgive me my impertinent tongue.”

“My prince,” you tacked on hastily as you felt tension radiate off Sif in tightly wound coils. _Norns have mercy_ , you prayed silently, keeping your eyes very firmly fixed on Prince Loki’s pale hand and the still fingers resting on the table. The other conversations at the table had diminished to a low, forced hum; your skin prickled under the tense stare of so many people.

“Well,” Loki drawled, fingers lifting one by one in a slow, careless wave from the table before drumming back down to the polished wood, “your choice of people to suffer your slip of tongue is rather unfortunate. I trust you know of my kennings?”

Your heart stopped, skipping a beat before leaping into a panicked frenzy. He had to know. That was the only reason he would remind you that he was known in whispers as Silvertongue, Weaver of Stories, _Liesmith_.  Somehow, the prince had discovered you and was going to toy with you for his pleasure before exposing you before his father. Your thoughts raced, heartbeat frantic as it threatened to shove an explosion of bile into your mouth.

His fingers curled towards his palm and your chin shot up of its own accord, forcing you to meet the cunning pleasure in his eyes, the same alluring blend of crushed ice and smoke that Lofn’s skin had carried—the scent of Loki’s seiðr, you realized belatedly—replacing the aroma of the feast laid out before you. To your left, what you could see of Queen Frigga— _you had stopped thinking of her younger son with a title attached_ , you noted, somewhat smugly—appeared admonishing, although you couldn’t determine who the intended target of her scorn was.

Loki’s eyes darted to his mother for an instant before returning to you, but in that instant his smirk lost a touch of arrogance, and you recognized with a shock that Loki Silvertongue, God of Mischief, had been cowed by a single look from the Allmother. Your admiration for Queen Frigga swelled, even as trepidation crept up your throat to leave a bitter tang at the base of your tongue.

Loki’s brilliant eyes held yours mercilessly, daring you to answer. The sudden revelation that he was testing you hit you like a bucket of ice down the collar; he wanted to continue the game that he had started as Lofn. This was nothing more than a game to him.

You grit your teeth, biting back the immediate rush of ire that crashed over you at his meddling. He had no idea what you were already gambling just by being here—how dare he use you as a pawn, a plaything in some stupid, _trivial_ game to entertain himself and satisfy his curiosity—your anger clarified itself to a single, glowing idea that was almost surely going to get you thrown in prison or executed. But if he knew already, you were simply sitting here like a bleating lamb among wolves, waiting for their teeth to close around your neck. Why not choose your demise?

Frankly, snuffing out the manipulative, sly fervor glittering in his expectant, insufferable eyes would be worth it.

You smiled, flashing teeth in a move that felt snatched directly from your opponent’s playbook. “But of course, my prince,” you drew out the sibilance of the last syllable until the sound hung razor-sharp and tight between you and Loki, whose hungry grin threatened to consume the rest of his slender face, “you are Loki Liesmith, Serpent-tongue, Shapechanger, Wolfsire, Baldersbane, Whor—”

Beside you, Sif’s quiet sigh of relief exploded into a hacking cough; further down the table, you heard something that sounded suspiciously like Fandral spitting a mouthful of mead back into his glass. Sif cleared her throat louder than you thought possible as she kicked your shin under the table (her wide-eyed, aghast expression would have been comical had trembling streaks of adrenaline not still been scorching your veins), and Thor broke out of his thoroughly astonished, semi-offended, semi-entertained reverie to join her in interrupting your flyting of Loki, whose dark eyebrows had slanted severely downwards over eyes flinty with anger—but as you watched closely, the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly from the tightened scowl he adopted as you spoke and you settled back in your chair, relief flooding you even as an internal war began to rage in your chest.

_Norns, it’s all over._

Beside you, Frigga’s admonishment shifted to something like amusement; her clear blue eyes held something that you almost dared call approval as she touched your arm and said in a voice that carried like a thrown spear across the great hall, “I believe it is time for dessert.”

Servants rushed into the hall, clearing dishes as conversation gradually began to accompany the clatter of plates; you wrenched your face into the best semblance of a polite smile you could manage and snuck a sideways glance at the king.

The Allfather was looking straight at you, his single blue eye unreadable, mouth set in a grim, unreadable line. Yet he didn’t seem as incensed as you had assumed he would be after some random commoner blatantly slandered his son right in front of his face after being invited to break bread at his table. Instead, King Odin looked more pensive than anything, but you still couldn’t help glancing towards Gungnir at his side and gulping at the glint of firelight on the imposing spear.

The Allfather grunted slightly as a servant placed a shallow bowl of milky pudding topped with nuts and a dusting of spices before him and you took the chance to break away from his piercing gaze, staring at your own dessert as horror began to rise in you like a tidal wave under the full moon.

The cinnamon and raw sugar dusting your pudding wavered on the surface, holding the image of an unsettlingly realistic snake a few seconds longer before arranging themselves into Loki’s laughing face, the sharply defined planes of his cheeks wobbling atop the creamy substance. You stared, aghast, as your dessert taunted you, before glaring across the table at the real Loki, struggling to hold your spoon properly instead of like a dagger as the faint fragrance of his seiðr wafted into your nostrils.

He met your glower with a pleased smile. Your eyes narrowed as you cursed the Norns. No one so infuriating ought to look so carefree—especially not when said infuriation came with such high stakes. You bared your teeth in the best semblance of a smile you could muster, holding Loki’s gloating gaze steady.

Then you stabbed his pudding eye with your spoon, carved it out, and ate it with relish, all without breaking your friendly stare.

Loki’s jaw went slack, his eyes widening not in fear, but in unadulterated shock. You turned to Sif and remarked cheerily, “This is delicious!”

She eyed you with an uneasy smile before telling you tentatively, “Agreed, it’s one of my favorites. Prince Thor favors it as well.” When you merely grinned in response, Sif seemed to relax, her smile breaking into her eyes. “The most vicious quarrel I can remember us having was over the last bowl of it at Yule, when we were children. We didn’t speak for weeks.”

Thor laughed, although the sound rang oddly defensive against the lightheartedness of Sif’s statement. “It wasn’t that serious,” he attempted to assure you, waving a hand in Sif’s direction as though to negate her claim. “Really.” He lifted a spoonful of pudding to his mouth, still trying to smile placidly.

Sif arched an eyebrow. “You threatened to have me tried for treason.”

“You stole one of Asgard’s treasures from a prince!”

“Fandral didn’t want his, and you didn’t ask!”

_And neither of them listened when I said they should have just shared,_ a familiar, sardonic voice sighed mournfully in your head. _Absolutely_ ruined _Yule that year, it was such a shame._

You jerked back against your seat, wincing as your skull slammed into the high wood backing. Fortunately, Thor and Sif’s argument had been loud enough to divert any attention from your odd spasm, but that didn’t stop you from scowling with renewed fire at the prince directly across from you.

Loki didn’t even deign to look at you; his head was turned towards Thor, a polite mask of mild concern fixed securely over his features despite the ill-disguised delight present in the fiddling of his fingers.

“Stop that,” you hissed under your breath, raising your spoon to your mouth in an attempt to hide the movement of your lips. “Get out of my head.”

_It’s not my fault you leave your mind wide open,_ Loki’s disembodied voice snapped. _Besides, you think so dreadfully loudly. I hardly wanted to hear your every fawning thought about how wonderful and amazing you find that oafish excuse of a woman you’re seated next to, but did I have a choice in the matter?_

You shoved pudding into your mouth, blood boiling, rapidly muttering around the spoon, “That’s not a very kind thing to say about your own mother, my prince. I would have thought she’d have taught you better.”

Loki’s jaw clenched for a moment before his voice floated into your mind again.

_You ought to be on your knees, thanking the Norns that I find you entertaining enough not to throw in prison for your slander, peasant. Haven’t you realized that you are fully at my mercy?_

You smiled to yourself at the clear irritation in his voice. So the Silvertongue _did_ have a chink in his armor, it seemed.

_What in the Nine are you grinning about?_ Loki spat petulantly, his eyes still bouncing between Thor and Sif, looking for all the world as if he were truly invested in their pudding squabble. _For someone who thinks incessantly at the volume of a bilgesnipe in heat, you’re quite pathetic. You can’t even reply to me without mumbling into your—_

You focused all your mental energy on him, eyes narrowing into slits as you imagined drawing an arrow of your thoughts and training it on a point straight between the prince’s eyes. You loosed it, mentally screaming as loudly as possible.

For a single, soul-shattering moment, you thought you had failed. Then Loki’s eyebrows twitched and his head snapped around to fix you with an icy glare.

You had the extreme pleasure of curving your lips up into a satisfied bow, as if greeting a friend returning from an arduous journey. Loki’s silent fuming was almost as sweet as the spoonful of pudding you resisted the temptation to toast him with before tipping it into your mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, everyone! I couldn't quite find a good stopping spot for this chapter, so I tried to write to a wrap-up point, and then I ended up writing about 2k words too many and needed to cut it short, haha. Maegthen is actually another name for chamomile, so you can definitely enjoy a cup of tea to match the pudding mentioned here. (Also hit me up if you want that pudding recipe, it's bomb.)  
> A bunch of you guys were spot-on with your guesses on Lofn, good job guys! Wonder if she'll pop up again... 😉 Hope you like this one! As always, thank you for reading!


	5. Feasts and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frigga enters the game, Sif is a concerned friend, and everyone except Loki struggles with internalized homophobia.

What in the Nine are you grinning about? _Loki spat petulantly, his eyes still bouncing between Thor and Sif, looking for all the world as if he were truly invested in their pudding squabble._ For someone who thinks incessantly at the volume of a bilgesnipe in heat, you’re quite pathetic. You can’t even reply to me without mumbling into your—

_You focused all your mental energy on him, eyes narrowing into slits as you imagined drawing an arrow of your thoughts and training it on a point straight between the prince’s eyes. You loosed it, mentally screaming as loudly as possible._

_For a single, soul-shattering moment, you thought you had failed. Then Loki’s eyebrows twitched and his head snapped around to fix you with an icy glare._

_You had the extreme pleasure of curving your lips up into a satisfied bow, as if greeting a friend returning from an arduous journey. Loki’s silent fuming was almost as sweet as the spoonful of pudding you resisted the temptation to toast him with before tipping it into your mouth._

“I am glad you enjoy tonight’s dessert.”

Queen Frigga’s voice cut through your gloating like lemon through fat. You turned to look at her, unable to stop feeling like a guilty child caught red-handed by her maternal, knowing smile. But how?

Oh Norns. The Allmother was of Vanaheim, the hearth of old magic—Frigga had been appointed Odin’s seiðkona shortly after their marriage, his personal consultant for matters involving seiðr and magic. She had definitely heard you shriek like a banshee at her son—you had no idea what you were doing or how this telepathy seemed to work, and Loki had said that you thought loudly. Hel, what if the Allfather had heard you? For all your resolve to serve Loki a taste of his own medicine earlier, consequences be damned, those potential consequences were looming rather large over you now.

An unfamiliar presence pressed around you, somehow indubitably benevolent despite the eerie sensation of a foreign, unknown _something_ surrounding you in a way that was more intimate than anything you’d ever experienced. You swallowed hard, as the Allmother very deliberately moved her hand to your arm, hovering over your skin without breaking eye contact.

She paused, looking at you kindly, and you realized she was waiting for you to answer—what question, or how, you had no idea, but she was the Queen and something in the way her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled put you at ease, so you nodded hesitantly. Her hand leisurely lowered, fingers resting lightly on your arm. You smelled apricots and summer as the invisible pressure surrounding you vanished, and your eyes widened in sudden understanding.

_I apologize for the breach of courtesy it seems my sons are intent on immortalizing this evening with._

At the same time that you heard Frigga’s voice in your mind, her lips moved, shaping different words with her physical voice. “It may remind you of home. Maegthen blossoms are steeped in the milk used to make the pudding and I believe the chefs placed a few dried flowers in the bottom of each bowl as well. Is the flavor familiar?”

Your mouth twitched in frustration as you tried to direct your thoughts to the queen to respond as you lifted another spoonful to your mouth. Loki would notice if you mumbled into your food again, and you didn’t want to risk his retaliation when it seemed you were so severely out of your own range, but you couldn’t just ignore one of the queen’s voices. Your jaw clenched as you tried to push your own apology to the queen, but felt the words fall short as though from a half-drawn bow.

Queen Frigga’s hand squeezed your forearm lightly, and though she neither said nor thought anything in your direction, you understood her intended succor.

You let the pudding fall to your tongue in a creamy wave, intent on answering the queen one question at a time. It was sweet and mild, almost refreshing thanks to the chill that still lingered in your bowl despite the roaring fires. Your mouthful cleaved over your teeth and a thin, wafer-like sliver pressed against the tip of your tongue; instantly, a burst of flavor filled your mouth and you nearly sucked at your teeth chasing more of its familiar comfort. Floral, airy sweetness tempered by a touch of bitter, bloomy headiness deepened into a rapture of by earthy tangs of raw green—

“It tastes like the tea my mother brews,” you told Frigga, subtly trying to lick at the flower stuck at the edge of your teeth. _It tastes like home,_ you thought, and from the way her smile brightened, you wanted to believe she heard you.

“You must have been a healthy child,” she remarked. “Maegthen is a wonderful panacea, and drinking it regularly is a good defense against many illnesses that tend to plague young Asgardians.”

It was true, you mused aloud, you had rarely fallen ill as a child.

“It’s no wonder your sister chose to become a healer,” Loki remarked without looking up as he stirred the contents of his own bowl. You stiffened, frantically trying to remember everything you had told Lofn in your tent. “Growing up around so many wonderful medicines, you were never tempted yourself to dabble?”

His question was light, but the look in his eyes as he raised them to pin yours was anything but.

You could feel Sif’s questioning look from your side—after all, you’d told her about your “sister” as well, and you’d only lied once—as well as general confusion from the table at how the second prince knew such a random detail about your family. Sheer instinct tamped down your growing fear as you forced a laugh from your lips.

What game was he playing at? Herbal medicines were neutral territory in terms of how Asgardian society viewed acceptable knowledge for either sex—warriors had to know how to keep themselves from festering to death far from home, no matter their gender—but healing as a profession was a woman’s domain, almost to the same extent that men ruled the battlefield. Seiðr existed in the middle of the spectrum and was swayable to either side, but magic like Odin’s foresight and Thor’s bond to Mjölnir were considered significantly more…glorious than Frigga’s (and Loki’s, now that you considered it) uses for seiðr, despite their equally impressive capabilities.

 “Well, my prince, I found it much more satisfying to have my sister’s beautiful fellow apprentices dressing my wounds and patting on poultices. They possess a certain delicacy that I fear my own touch rather lacks,” you told Loki with a redolent chuckle, earning you a hearty laugh and nod from Thor while Sif rolled her eyes beside you.

While Loki looked by no means pleased by your answer, his acceptance meant that you were free to minimize collateral, so you turned and said to Sif conspiratorially, “My other sister hates going to the healers. She complains that they take far too long to slap on grass pastes and that she could do it in half the time.”

Sif’s snort reassured you even before she grinned at you. “I did wonder at the change in career paths. Is she older or younger than the healer?”

Sigyn was older than you by a fortnight.

“Younger,” you answered, too aware of how Loki’s eyes narrowed on you as a dangerous smile slit his face. Trying to head him off before he had the chance to do any more damage, you explained to the rest of the table,

“Asgard’s city has truly welcomed me this day. The Norns smiled on me and I had the fortune of meeting Lady Sif before the tournament, and we spoke briefly. Prince Loki graciously entertained me with a short conversation when I ran into him near the palace, and he was kind enough to ask after my family.”

Sif’s mouth puckered as she nodded in courteous acknowledgement, cheeks pulling as though she were struggling not to laugh at your sudden formality, but Prince Thor was looking at his brother with a gleam of interest.

“When did you come back out? You said you were going to the library.” The elder prince’s face twisted as he added, a tiny bit sullenly, “You could have come with us, we rode out to the waterfall.”

“As truly enjoyable as that would have been, I had planned on staying within the palace.” You watched Loki carefully as he constructed his lie seamlessly. His smile glittered in the firelight like a polished blade and your stomach turned in uneasy awe.

“I forgot to bring a few things with me to the library, and it was nice enough out to tempt me into taking the long way back to my chambers on my way to retrieve them. It gladdens me to know that a fleeting conversation could lift up an archer’s heart so.”

Thor accepted Loki’s alibi with a grunt, but his words sent a knot of anxiety writhing in the pit of your stomach. The sensation crept through your body as Loki turned leisurely towards you, casual, friendly smile completely belied by the wicked, diabolical glint in his eyes.

You tensed, half-expecting his smooth voice to suddenly sound in your head, but Loki only held your gaze for a moment more before turning and addressing his mother about some spell.

Queen Frigga looked mildly surprised but was all too happy to engage her son in a conversation on the technicalities and theory of seiðr that quickly lost you with its detail. You cautiously turned your attention to Sif and the rest of the table, still wary of the prince across from you and his sharp tongue.

As the fire burned to embers, Loki didn’t glance your way again, and the air remained free off the scent of his seiðr.

Once the plates had been cleared away and a few more flagons of mead had refilled the table’s cups (and been emptied), Odin cleared his throat. The table fell silent as everybody turned their attention to the king expectantly.

Your heart leapt into your throat as the Allfather reached for Gungnir, but it was only to hold the formidable spear at his side as he looked out over the table.

“Archers, I hope you have enjoyed tonight’s meal. May your memories of tonight remind you of what is to be won tomorrow.”

Odin thumped the butt of Gungnir against the stone floor to punctuate his words. As he turned, Frigga stood as well, marking her husband’s clear dismissal, and you followed suit. You pushed your chair in, a slight sense of regret spilling over you.

A whole evening meal with Sif, the Warriors Three, and the royal family, and you’d spent most of it exchanging coded verbal blows with Prince Loki instead. Who knew when—if ever—you’d get another chance like this?

Maybe it was the mead, or maybe just your own organic desperation—something emboldened your tongue, made you turn to Sif and ask just a little too earnestly to be taken jokingly, “Would it be too beyond my place to ask for an escort back to the campground?”

Someone laughed heartily—probably Prince Thor—and you kicked yourself mentally for phrasing your request so clumsily, but thank the Norns, Sif seemed to understand that you weren’t propositioning her, although the amused curl of her lip let you know that the unintended meaning if your words hadn’t escaped her either.

She nodded, eyes glinting with restrained laughter, but before she could respond verbally, another voice cut in, smooth as a razor through silk.

“Not at all, archer dearest.”

Your blood ran cold as you slowly turned to take in the sharp smile on Loki’s face. His voice was nothing but courteous, satisfied invitation as he continued, coming around the table to stand by you, “I still haven’t answered the last of your questions from our conversation earlier, after all. It would be rude of me not to ensure that all the queries you have for your prince are seen to.”

Sif’s eyes darted to Loki and back to you. Even before her mouth twisted dryly, you knew she was powerless to extricate you. Loki was a prince of Asgard, after all—she was sworn to his family’s service and defying him now would cause far too much of a spectacle.

Still, you couldn’t help weakly protesting, “I would not want to distract you from your rest, my lord. Surely your days must require you to attend to many important matters. I imagine you are fatigued.”

Loki’s smile only widened as he shook his head. His hand slipped elegantly around your shoulder, turning you as he began to all but herd you from the room.

“You’ve proven you know of my kennings,” he told you conversationally, “but did you know that my father has also named me deputy seiðrmaðr of the realm? My mother is his seiðkona, principal wielder of seiðr in Asgard, and I am her second-in-command.”

You blinked, unsure of how to respond. He had to be telling you this for a reason—warning you not to cross him, perhaps? Rather belated then. Or was this another pointed way to remind you of some hole you’d left in your lies?

The archers you’d entered with were divided between looking at you jealously (although what there was to be jealous about having Prince Loki practically breathing in your ear, you couldn’t fathom) and exchanging knowing scoffs.

Wait. Some of the rumors you’d heard about the younger prince surfaced in your mind.

Loki’s arm tightened around your shoulder as he leant in to whisper, “Are you sure your sister knows nothing of seiðr? Gave you no little trinket or luck charm before you left home?”

You could feel your face burning as the fourth and second place archers exchanged meaningful sneers. Was it true, then, that the prince was so unrestricted when it came to selecting bedfellows? Was this why he’d disguised himself as a woman to speak with you earlier, to determine your own preferences? Could he actually have fallen for your ruse? —although now that you thought about it, even fooling him was quickly proving to be the equivalent of leaping from the kettle to the fire.

Your tongue felt like lead as you muttered, “No, sire.”

Loki hummed in seemingly light curiosity. “Oh? Perhaps I’ll show you some of my tricks.”

He turned to throw an unnerving smile at the other archers. It was hard not to feel a sense of satisfaction at the way they were instantly cowed, shuffling their feet as a few Einherjar moved forward to lead them out of the grand hall, but you still couldn’t tamp down the anxiety Loki’s proximity was whipping up in your nerves.

A wave of relief crashed over you as Prince Thor spoke, glancing with a frown at his brother, “Loki, he has to shoot in the tournament tomorrow. The man needs rest.”

Loki waved his hand dismissively in the air, the one of your shoulder sliding down to grip your hip in a hold that was slightly more than friendly, and you realized with a growing sense of horror that his brother had inadvertently sealed your fate. It didn’t matter if Loki had offered to accompany you in order to interrogate you or to bed you.

Either way, he was dangerously close to uncovering your secrets, and it didn’t seem there was much you could do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BACK!
> 
> Sorry for the long stretch between updates, I was stuck on how I wanted to write Loki manipulating his way into walking the Reader back to her tent. Hope you guys enjoy, and thanks as always for the read! 
> 
> So, what do you think Loki's plotting now? Do you think he's uncovered Reader's secret identity, or is he headed back to her tent in the pursuit of something else? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) Leave your thoughts, comments, and theories below! <3


	6. Nightfall Come Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki's interest grows and jealousy brews among the archers. A new, dangerously intoxicating power is invoked and secrets spill like sand from an hourglass.

You had to give the tavern rumors some credit: Loki had no shortage of charm, and if you hadn’t been so distressed, his charismatic attentions would have had your heart pounding for reasons other than anxiety and fear. He was quite the attentive walking partner, pointing out this constellation or that spire in ways that brought his face conveniently close to yours or his free hand briefly across your body so that it could brush against your cheek or chin as he brought it back from where he flung it in directing your regard. Sigyn would have melted in his arms by now—and she, like you (although for markedly different reasons), had always favored Prince Thor.

“I must admit, I never thought that watching archery would be quite so entertaining,” the prince told you as you walked towards the campground. He wasn’t even pretending not to know the way to your tent, and your attempts at stalling by shuffling your feet between every step had lowered his brows so severely that you didn’t dare try to slow his pace anymore. “But it’s so satisfying, to watch you get so drawn into the process, up until the moment the arrow flies from your hands. I imagine it’s quite exhilarating.”

Loki’s arm hadn’t left your shoulder since he slung it there, and it remained a pressure rivaling the knot of dread and apprehension tightening in your stomach. It was rather unfortunate; in literally any other situation, it would have been absolutely lovely to have someone so ardently admiring you and your favorite activity in the world, but at the moment, compliments and courtship were the last thing on your mind. You mumbled something in response, heart beginning to race as your tent came into view.

“My prince, I must warn you that my tent is completely unfit for someone of your status,” you blurted in an attempt to derail him.

“Nonsense,” Loki said easily and with a small, rolling laugh. His grin darkened as he added, only half-jestingly, “I’ve spent nights in far worse accommodations.”

Your panic overtook you completely and you began to ramble desperately, “It would look improper—”

“I’ve never been overly fond of propriety.”

“—I’m afraid I’m terrible company past nightfall—”

“I’m aware, I’ve spent quite a bit of time with you today, you’re not much more agreeable during daylight.”

“—I’m expecting someone—”

At that, Loki’s smirk turned to a glower and he snapped with an air of finality, “No, you are not. As entertaining as your excuses are, I am no longer amused.”

He dragged you the last remaining feet towards your tent, the arm around your shoulders going from merely heavy to downright crushing.

You expected him to thrust the entrance flap aside and march in to lay waste to all your secrets in a merciless blaze of princely proportions, but instead, Loki just gestured towards the flap pointedly.

Briefly, you wondered if you could just refuse him entrance and sit out here all night. Before the thought even finished fully crossing your mind, Loki growled, “Don’t test me.”

Gulping past the cold lump in your throat, you reached out with a trembling hand and pushed the fabric aside. Loki’s hand slid down to the small of your back and nudged at you firmly; you obeyed his wordless order and led the way in, swallowing the whimper that rose up in your throat as your fingers brushed the inner wall and gold rippled out from your fingertips.

What had once been a comforting sight now filled you with dread; you turned stiffly to see Loki’s eyes following the wave of light over the walls of your tent. His gaze snapped to yours and his charming grin sharpened, sending your frozen heart plummeting from your throat to the pit of your stomach.

He bent to follow you inside, his steps so light they were almost silent over the earth. The flap furled shut behind him, and as Loki straightened back up, you realized just how tall he was; despite his narrow frame—he was nearly dwarfed by his brother—Loki still cut an imposing figure, his sleek raven head towering above yours and his shoulders broader than yours even with your carefully-maintained stance.

“If you have no seiðr, and your sister sent you off so unkindly,” Loki began slowly, stalking ominously towards you, “how is it that I can feel Vanir energy inside this tent?”

Your blood froze and you gaped at him, mouth fluttering like a fish out of water as you tried to find a way out.

“I-I am Asgardian,” you whispered through dry lips, fingers clenching at your sides as you resisted the urge to clutch at the two amulets under your shirt. Loki’s right hand flashed and you flinched as something thudded into the tent wall.

He rolled his eyes and muttered something to himself before pointing at the concentric waves of gold spreading over your tent. “Did you think you were clever, masking yourself with that?”

What? You blinked at Loki, confusion taking over your anxiety for the briefest of moments.

His wrist flicked and another pebble thudded against the cloth. Your eyes darted to the second ring of gold, and when they returned to where Loki had been standing, he had closed the remaining distance between you, gilded green eyes fixed directly on your own and barely centimetres away.

You scrambled backwards, flailing as your foot caught on the strap of your pack. The loop under your foot slipped and you hit the ground with a cry. The impact burst through your elbows and tailbone, aftershocks of pain traveling through your body.

Loki was upon you before you could push yourself back up, straddling your hips and pressing you down with his own weight as his hands seized your upper arms. Terror flooded you as Loki’s thighs pressed against you and the rags you had rolled into your underclothes rubbed against your leg.

He couldn’t find out. Not this—perhaps the trickster prince could be persuaded to overlook your previous transgressions if you begged him, but Loki was obligated by both blood and law to report you to the Allfather, if he discovered your masquerade and the Vanir amulet. Odin’s justice would not be pleasant…you’d be charged with fraud at best, treason at worst (and most likely).

Your fears escaped in a shout as you writhed under Loki, breaking free of his grip on your arms and shoving at him in an attempt to throw him off. His face contorted, teeth baring in a face alight with elegant ire. Dark hair slipped over one shoulder, reminiscent of Lofn’s, as Loki caught one of your wrists and leaned down over you to pin you down again with his forearm barring your shoulder.

“As enjoyable,” he huffed, tossing his head to flick away the hair that had fallen in front of his eyes, “as your attempts to distract me are, I’m a bit insulted that you think I’d fall for such _base_ methods.”

Well, even if you had considered trying to seduce him, evidently it wouldn’t have worked. Loki’s weight shifted slightly and you panicked.

“The Yggdrasil amulet was just for protection,” you blurted frantically as his pelvis slanted down more firmly on your hip. “My village is small and the city has so many people, I was worried about the tournament. I couldn’t leave so suddenly—and if things didn’t go well, I couldn’t go back with nothing to show—”

“You’re lying.” Loki’s eyes narrowed. His fingers dug deeper into your skin as you shook your head. “But you aren’t…”

He sounded just as confused as you were sure you looked. Cold fingers tightened over the skin of your arms, frigid even through your shirt sleeves.

“Drop the ward,” Loki demanded. You stared up at him, very aware of how close his torso was to yours. If he dropped his weight down any further, he’d feel the edge of your binding start to curl up over your ribs. “ _Drop it_.”

His voice slashed through your thoughts and you jerked your head in compliance. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips (although your throat was still painfully dry) and you croaked, “Need my hand.”

Loki regarded you suspiciously for a moment before slowly relinquishing his hold on one wrist and migrating it to your upper arm. You slowly reached for the amulet, clenching your fist around it over your shirt, and whispered the command word. Warmth pulsed from the stone before fading away and Loki cast a look around, his fingers twitching. A pointed glare from him made you meekly unwrap your fingers from the Yggdrasil amulet; the moment your hand relinquished the amber stone, Loki’s wrapped around your wrist again and yanked upwards, stretching one arm above your head so that he loomed over you.

The scent of his seiðr filled the air and you realized that he must be checking to see if you had followed his order. Seemingly satisfied, Loki pinned your gaze again and asked coldly, “Why did you enter this tournament?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he added, “I will know if you lie. And believe me when I say that it is by far in your best interests _not_ to lie to me.” His eyes glinted, moonlight glancing sharply off the contours of his face, and you nodded mutely, heart pounding.

“I wanted to join the Warriors Three.”

That, at least, was the truth. He hadn’t asked you for a detailed answer, after all.

“Where did you get the amulet?”

Another vague answer would suffice. “The market.”

Loki’s jaw clenched and his fingers tightened around your arm. “Why did you buy it?”

You needed to be careful with this one. “I’d heard theft was more common in the city. I wanted to protect myself.”

Loki was silent, and for a moment, you thought you had managed to escape his questions. Then the ten freezing points on your arms merged into a flat expanse of frigid pressure as the heel of Loki’s palms dug into you and you bit back a whine of pain as his weight crushed you into the ground.

“Do not mistake my mercy for foolishness. I am not my brother.”

Loki’s growl rolled from low in his throat but pierced you as if thrown from on high. His eyes were flinty, refusing to release your paralyzed gaze. When he spoke again, chiseled lips parting like cold, living marble, you understood why the bards had crowned him Serpent-tongue.

“Your entertainment grows dull, archer, and I grow weary of your games. Clever, but your silly little trinket cannot protect you from Asgard’s wrath.”

His words sharpened, slithering from cold, menacing weight to the bladed, flickering hiss of a snake with fangs bared and venom dripping.

“Do you take orders from Vanaheim?”

You shook your head stiffly, trying not to disrupt Loki’s weight over you. His glare bore into you and you half expected one of the prince’s notorious daggers to make a sudden appearance.

“What then,” Loki demanded, pressing down into you, “made you decide it was worth it to lie to not only your princes, but your king and queen?”

You caved in your chest as much as you could, trying to evade the increasing pressure of his body, but Loki was too focused on his interrogation to notice.

“You cannot hide. I am offering you the chance of a willing confession now; my father will not be so magnanimous in his orders to me.”

Smoke and ice prickled at your nose, but you would have understood Loki’s thinly veiled threat (warning?) all the same without it. The elegance of his ultimatum brought you no comfort, however; if anything, it simply served to confirm your worst fears: you had been discovered, and Odin’s mercy would perhaps extend at its greatest to letting you die a nameless criminal.

Loki already knew you were hiding something; what good would it do to spin another lie in faux defense? It was painfully obvious that he hadn’t even entertained the notion of keeping his discovery from Odin. Still…you had come all this way, and done so much to get here…surrendering the truth was still unthinkable.

Clinging tightly to a tattered scrap of bravery and a mental image of Sigyn, you found your voice grainy and difficult to shape, as though it belonged to someone else and you had merely wrenched it into your own throat to answer Loki’s question.

“My sister.”

The seaglass stars burning down at you flared for a moment before Loki narrowed his eyes, his head dipping ever so slightly lower as he snarled, “Liar.”

He was so close. So terribly, dangerously close. Too close.

Your heart slammed viciously against your bound ribs; you hardly dared breathe for fear that a single inhale too deep would crack a rib and sent your burst lungs careening out through your terror-tightened windpipe.

“You did not come here for a _sister_ ,” Loki spat, cold distaste curling over his voice.

His breath hit your lips with his next words, hot and blunt in a diametric foil to the character of their delivery. “You bought a paltry charm to protect yourself—you knew you would attract suspicion and sought a shield for your sins. You shot just well enough in the preliminaries to earn yourself a favourable but not overly scrutinized standing and _conveniently_ came across Sif in a city which houses nigh on a hundred thousand people. You certainly didn’t shirk from a conversation with my mother. Did you really think your arrogance would go unnoticed? Traitors mustn’t be greedy, you understand.”

The freezing pressure on your arms burned now, Loki’s fingers so harsh and cold you swore the skin was searing black under his touch.

“No,” you tried to tell him through numb lips and shallow breaths, shaking your head desperately as you realized that he thought you had been sent on Vanir orders to assassinate the queen. Loki’s grip only grew tighter and icier, his eyes blazing with some wild, feral wrath from within.

His voice rose, twisting and coiling around unfamiliar, unintelligible sounds, the familiar lilt of the Asgardian language replaced by something even more susurrated and rushing; panic began to bleed in through your ears as you realized that Loki was speaking in Vanir, eyes still alight with an unrecognizable, raw ire.

Vanir. A flimsy, desperate spark of hope leapt weakly from your brain to spinal cord, carrying out the message.

If you could only reach the second amulet, the polished granite orb whose weight pressed heavy into the dip of your collarbone…you’d taken the Vanir herbs religiously since setting out on your journey. Surely their powers were concentrated enough in your bloodstream to muster up enough potency for one use of the amulet, if you could manage to touch the amulet and channel its link to the herbs.

Loki’s iron grip was still locked over you, securely pinning you to the ground. A slight tense and cautious twist against him only tightened his hold and brought a crooked smirk to his lips. You struggled nonetheless, yelping as his fingers dug into your flesh. The sight reminded you of the dinner (and squabble) you’d shared with him and gave you an idea.

The amulet rolled upwards on its leather cord and you concentrated on the sensation of its cool, smooth surface against your skin, allowing the feeling to fill your mind as you tried to ignore the intensifying scent of Loki’s seiðr pulling at your senses.

Another curt demand in Vanir tumbled from Loki’s lips and your panic spiked as his weight shifted lower, bringing him dangerously close to both the rag ball and your bindings. You frantically tried to cling to a mental image and connection to the Vanir amulet, but just as you managed to conjure up a solid image of the stone, the flap to your tent burst open.

Loki’s head snapped to the intruder just as yours did; your eyes widened as you recognized the archer who’d placed fourth earlier and the glint of a hand axe clutched in his grip. Both men shouted, shock flooding over the sneer on the archer’s face at the sight of Loki straddling you.

The prince’s knee tilted as he made to lunge forward, releasing you as his hands wove a sigil of viridian light in the air; his hand skimmed the rolling edge of your binding as his weight rolled smoothly over your hips and thighs. The rags squashed under him and Loki broke from his spellcasting to shoot you a glance of genuine astonishment.

The archer snapped out of his shock-fueled freeze and turned to run; as Loki extended a hand, green sparks swirling from the center of his palm, you seized the Vanir amulet and cried out the command word that had been resting on the tip of your tongue.

Something sizzled in your veins, streaking through your blood with the exquisite sear of lightning arcing from spire to spire before plummeting like lead—your eyes burned as a shivering fire burst to life in your fingertips and the world froze in front of you.

The false seiðr swept into your blood by the herbs fizzled under your skin as you watched everything rewind: Loki’s eyes contracted and his limbs glided backwards until he was firmly atop you once more, although you carefully avoided his grasp to keep one hand free, leaving his torso stretched over you and one hand clutched around nothing above your head. The fourth-place archer’s legs wheeled in reverse, body turning as his face spooled back from shock to the malicious sneer he’d arrived with.

Your body burned, ineffable ecstasy and agony racing through every nerve in your body as you fought to keep control over the power threatening to consume you if you kept holding on. Just a few seconds more…

A sheen of tears and sweat glossed your vision and your spine creaked as though it would explode; you blinked through the blurry sting to watch as the archer walked backwards and the entrance flap resealed itself.

The instant the cloth settled back in place, you released the polished grey orb; a curl of smoke rose from it as it hit your chest again, this time almost painfully hot, even through your clothing. Its power drained from you instantly, leaving you feeling curiously empty and shaking in the absence of its tremendous aura. Loki began to say something, presumably a repeat of whatever Vanir demand he had asked previously, but you didn’t waste time trying to figure it out.

Your clammy hand closed around the amber Yggdrasil stone and you barked the command word. The flare of warmth between your clenched fingers drenched in you in relief, and none too soon.

Mere seconds after gold rippled over your walls, the entrance flap bulged inwards violently, as if under a fist, but remained sealed under the amulet’s protection. Loki raised a hand, but you seized it with your own—the archer would leave on his own, and any interference from the prince would only raise dangerous questions. An inexplicably smashed or warped bow was one thing, but an encounter with the prince in a warded competitor’s tent was another altogether.

A shiver ran down your spine at the memory of the archer’s hand axe. Presumably he had been there for your bow or arrows and not you (a corpse was decidedly much more difficult to pass off as archer’s negligence, and he’d be a prime suspect either way), but so much could have been ruined had he actually caught you asleep, as he had apparently intended.

“Where in the Nine Realms did you get that?!”

Your eyes snapped back to Loki at his outburst, taking in his taut, flared gaze and the accusation in his voice. Your relief at having successfully thwarted the archer crumbled to ash when you followed Loki’s piercing stare straight to the grey-speckled orb gleaming on your chest.

His weight hadn’t seemed terribly heavy before, but now Loki’s body was cage and deadweight both, keeping you pinned down as he demanded again,

“What kind of seiðr lets you turn back time?!”

Impossible. How…how could he have known what the Vanir amulet did? The entire point of its magic was to rewind time so that its user alone could manipulate the flow of events. Had you misused it somehow?

Loki’s voice held a frantic, sharp edge as he seized the amulet and yanked, jerking you half off the ground and ignoring the sizzle of his skin against the stone.

“What did you do?”

Gilded, dizzying celadon darted to capture your speechless, panicked eyes before swooping back to the granite orb clutched in Loki’s grasp.

“Answer me, damn it! This art was lost before my mother left Vanaheim. How did an Æesir  peasant come across a forgotten magic from another realm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the long gap since my last update, my life offline has gotten a bit more hectic. I'm heading back to university in a few weeks, so I'm afraid my posting schedule will likely be very inconsistent from here on out, but I'll do my best to bring you all more Loki love on a semi-regular basis! Thanks for sticking with this story, and I hope to see you all again soon!
> 
> (I'd say I'm sorry for the cliffhanger, but...I'm really not muahahaha)


	7. A Changing of Vanes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki's interest in the archer takes a dark turn after a partial confession. Tensions mount as the second round of the tournament approaches.

You gaped at Loki in mute horror. His brows lowered, the contours of his face slanting sharply into severity, and he repeated his demand, this time in a voice that crept like frozen steel around your spine.

“Where,” a hand tugged on the amulet still in his grasp, jerking you towards him by the cord, “did you get this?”

The prince’s eyes were hard and very nearly cruel; gone was the spark of mischief that had emboldened you before. Trying to read Loki’s gaze now was like peering into a pair of flinty mirrors; your heart thudded against your bound ribs so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Blood rushed in your ears like some hideous accompaniment to your equally torrential panicked thoughts.

His nostrils flared as he exhaled in irritation and you scrambled to regain control of your fear-numbed lips, realizing that he was waiting for a reply.

“I bought it from a trader at the market,” you blurted, fear pitching your voice up before you could wrench it back down.

Loki’s hand whipped out, snatching your hand away from the Yggdrasil amulet and pinning both hands to the ground above your head. He leaned over you and hissed, “Details.”

You swallowed and complied, doing your best to ignore how dangerously low Loki’s weight was slung over your torso.

“I bought both amulets from the same trader at the same time,” you confessed, staring intently at the collar seam of Loki’s tunic in a vain attempt to avoid the searing intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know who she was, I was just looking for a protection amulet and she offered to sell me both at a discount. She said they would be more powerful together, that the whole was better than a half. She said—”

You cut yourself off with a gulp as Loki’s body shifted slightly. You could feel his legs pressing over your hip bones. One chance movement and it would all be over—you’d be discovered and Odin would—

“ _What did she say?_ ”

Loki’s voice scraped your brain clean like a knife over slate; the white of his teeth was so very hard and bright, flashing from between his smooth, thin lips. You tried to answer, but the words caught in your throat as fear and your own dawning realizations clogged the way. Loki’s eyes burned into you and your chest, sore from so many hours of restriction, creaked and whined in suffering.  

“I suggest you find your tongue before I do,” Loki said, far too calmly for someone with such ire blazing in their eyes.

Your lips trembled as you forced a halting answer out, each word shaped carefully by a dry and faltering voice. For a moment, you feared you would fail and the entire sentence would crash to the dirt beside your head, shattered into pieces like an icicle falling from a branch.

“She said that a shield was useless without a sword,” you finally managed, voice twisting into a whimper at the end.

This was it. This was how you would die, then—not in battle, fallen for the glory of Asgard, or alongside loyal warriors-at-arms. Your dreams had all been for nothing—your life would sputter to a pathetic, stupid conclusion at the hands of a prince you still grudgingly swore loyalty to, all because you had gotten yourself entangled in someone else’s devices by trying to lie with honor.

Your eyes screwed shut in a final, naïve attempt to block out the inevitable. Any second now, Loki would overcome his shock at how utterly _senseless_ you were and smite you in the name of justice. His father had given him orders in the case of treason—why would he defy them?

Your heart ricocheted violently against your strained ribs, adrenaline coursing through you with anticipation of whatever agony Loki saw fit to unleash. You only wished that your final breaths could have been of air sweeter than the dusty ground of the campsite, or that you had at least been able to see your family…Sigyn…the harvest light turning the trees of the valley into totems alight with hundreds of palm-sized lanterns at just the right moment…one last true shot…

Strangely enough, dying didn’t seem to hurt very much. It also seemed to take an exceedingly long time.

Hesitantly, you cracked one eye open.

Loki was staring down at you, face twisted with unimpressed incredulity bordering on distaste. His hands were still clamped around your wrists and the amulet, so there could be no mistaking the distinct lack of a blade at your throat. All you could smell in the air was a vague tang of sweat, grass, and a sharp, soapy thing that reminded you of juniper—no seiðr.

Slowly, you unscrunched your other eye; when you had been looking at Loki wide-eyed and mute for a few seconds, he raised one eyebrow and huffed through his nose sharply.

“You are quite possibly the worst assassin I have ever met.”

“I’m not an assassin, my prince, I swe—”

Loki cut you off with a severe glare that shriveled your protests before they left your tongue. Rolling his eyes, he said scathingly, “I believe you, you’re a miserable spy and apparently even worse at murder.”

You shut your mouth, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible while staring up at Loki. His face had lost the hardness that had bordered so precariously on cruelty earlier; the expression the younger prince wore now was one more akin to the cunning, foxlike smirk you had seen earlier at Odin’s feast table.

Something you would have called a snort had it been any less dignified whooshed from Loki’s mouth before his hand released your wrists, the other flattening over the amulet for a moment before also releasing its hold. His arms crossed, hands tucked neatly over biceps.

He did not stop straddling you.

“My prince,” you croaked. Loki raised one eyebrow, obviously enjoying your predicament.

“Yes?”

He drew out the word slowly, stretching it between teeth and tongue and letting it fill the air between you with innocence-lacquered guile. Your fingers twitched at your sides as you looked up at him uncomfortably, neck craning for fear that sitting up would shift his weight in the worst possible way.

“Please get off me,” you mumbled when he didn’t budge.

Something flickered over Loki’s face, but he didn’t protest—although the slow, measured way he lowered his weight to one side, hand stretching out to support himself, and swept his legs gracefully over so that he sat to your side barely did anything to alleviate the tension wracking your body.

Once he was elegantly seated beside you, limbs folded crisply, Loki leaned forward on his elbows and asked, “And so, archer, if you’re not a spy, an assassin, or a particularly astute haggler, what are you?”

Slowly and without taking your eyes off him, you rearranged yourself into a sitting position opposite Loki. You slid one ankle over the other to mirror him before answering carefully, watching his face for any sign of displeasure, “Well, that leaves just one thing, doesn’t it, my prince?”

His dark eyebrows lifted slightly, but nothing in his voice changed. “Oh? And what is that one thing?”

“An archer, my prince.”

Loki’s lips parted to release a sharp, surprised bark of laughter before curling back into a incredulous scoff. “An archer,” he repeated, seaglass eyes fixing yours mercilessly.

You nodded resolutely. He had seemed to look favorably upon your brashness earlier at his father’s table, or at least not mind it, even when it had been largely at his expense. You could only hope that you had not been mistaken and that your assumption would hold true.

Loki leaned even closer, and it struck you how soft his skin looked in the light of your lamp—you’d somehow expected that the prince would wear even his face like armor. His voice was soft, but no less dangerous for it. If anything, his intimidation drew more power from its quiet calm.

“Your insolence is ill-founded.” A glint grew in Loki’s eyes, nearly as alarming as the sharp edges of his voice. “Most people in your position would take the chance to be on their knees before me, begging for mercy.”

You hesitated a moment before deciding to commit to a plan that would either save you or get you killed immediately. At least you’d have some fun.

“And do you often find yourself being entertained by people on their knees, my prince?” you asked deliberately, holding Loki’s gaze. His raised eyebrows slanted downwards, but before he could respond, you added steadily, “I’m afraid I won’t fall among their ranks. You’ll not hear begging from me tonight, Prince Loki.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “So it seems. I am a man of determination, however, and I will have my answers.”

His gaze dropped from your eyes to the amulet around your neck. You forced yourself not to fidget despite the urge to cave your chest in. “How much of your little tale tonight was lie?”

“I spoke the truth,” you said carefully. “I am an archer from Hrafnkelsdalr. Everything I said about my journey here and about my village was true.”

Loki said nothing but regarded you with a cool, analytical gaze that did absolutely nothing to quiet the thumping panic in your stomach.

“And why did you intervene earlier? You stopped me from neutralizing the other archer who so burst in. Why? He was obviously here to do something unpleasant to you.”

You blinked in surprise. “I can’t deny that. But,” you paused, running your tongue over your teeth nervously before continuing, each word picked more carefully than the last, “he came for the same reasons as me.”

Loki’s eyes were hard when you met them, but you refused to let your voice falter. “We’re both here for a chance to prove ourselves. The Allfather’s promise is enough to make any man desperate, and there are situations more dire than mine to tip a man over the edge of reason.”

You glanced at the tent flap, jaw tightening. “He’s probably an honest man,” you told Loki, meeting his eyes once again, “with easily swayed morals and an inflated sense of self-justification.”

The smirk returned to his lips, curving the side of his face, and you prayed that it was out of amusement rather than irritation.

“Your mercy comes from optimism.” Loki’s voice hovered somewhere between boredom and disgust, and his eyes were icy as he pinned you down with his analytical gaze.

You shook your head. Your gaze slid from Loki’s angular, judging face to your bow and the lamplight flickering over its carefully polished contours.

“My justice comes from fairness,” you corrected. “I cannot judge a man’s desperation if I cannot swear that I wouldn’t have done the same in his place.”

 _And more of Odin’s attention is the last thing I need_ , you dared think before the fear that Loki will read your thoughts silenced your mind.

“Would you have?”

Loki’s voice startled you out of lip-worrying thought; it was suddenly silky and sweet, lightyears removed from the dark, rustling threat it had embodied before. Your eyes snapped to him and you nearly jerked backwards. He hasn’t moved, but something about his presence felt substantially more _looming_ despite his stillness.

“Would you have?” he repeated, cocking his head without releasing your gaze. His thumb twiddled with something at his side, but you couldn’t bring your eyes away from his. There was something mesmerizing in his gaze, daring you to hold it fast but burning at you at the same time. “You spared him. You dared speak against me, your prince, and risk my wrath in order to secure his continued safety. Would you really have tried to harm him or his possessions had he ranked higher than you?”

Your protest that yes, of course you would have, froze in your mouth. Admit to murderous thoughts and pettiness, or lose all semblance of loyalty to your own moral code?

Loki merely raised his eyebrows at your glare, daring you to answer. He’d trapped you with your own words. Again.

Your jaw worked slightly as you tried to cobble together an answer, mind racing and turning over itself.

“Everything I call my own is at stake for me here,” you answered finally. It was a poorly constructed diversion, and you both knew it.

To your surprise, Loki only rolled his eyes and let out a flat huff of exasperation. The sardonic look he fixed upon you let you know that this was indeed the younger prince’s mercy.

“Shoot well tomorrow,” he said. You blinked in surprise as he peered at the grey amulet again. One pale finger extended to prod at the stone; apparently it had cooled enough to touch, as Loki held it up for inspection, ignoring how his actions tugged you forward.

The sharp smile you’d come to recognize as his signature reappeared on his face. He set the amulet back down against your shirt. When his hand settled firmly over your shoulder, you held still—against your better judgement.

“Consider this your chance to win my favor. And believe me, dear archer, my favor is a very valuable thing to have.”

“What—”

Before you finished your sentence, Loki was gone. A sweep of your head outside the tent revealed nothing but rustling grass and moonlight.

 

“…ow.”

Your chest creaked dangerously as you finally unwrapped your bindings and coughed, thumping yourself on the chest to clear the tension settled there. The Vanir amulet bounced up with the force of a particularly vigorous hit, glistening crimson in the flickering lamplight.

Your eyes widened and you snatched the cord around your neck, hastily yanking it over your head so that you could lift the whole thing up and squint at it. Sure enough, a dark smear of blood streaked across the shiny surface of the orb.

A soft swear slipped from your lips. You must have scraped yourself somewhere during the scuffle with Loki or the other archer earlier. As though your blood was reacting to the realization, you felt a sore tingle of the amulet’s power in your body, aching along the length of your bones and whispering promises of control—you seized your polishing cloth to wipe away the smear of blood, but before you could, the granite seemed to swallow the dark, viscous liquid into itself.

A prickle of dread ran up your spine.

If you hadn’t seen it yourself, you wouldn’t have known that the amulet had absorbed anything at all. Its dark luster gleamed just as before, but there was something sinister about it.

Fatigue battled unease, and with the crack of a brutal yawn, triumphed. You flopped down onto your sleeping pack, suddenly too weary to even bother grabbing the rag ball from your pants.

“Tomorrow,” you murmured, already drifting off as your hand fumbled to extinguish the lamp. “Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, fellow Americans!   
> I hope everyone enjoys their days today, and thank you as always for reading. If you liked it (or didn't!), please leave me a comment! I love talking to you guys and hearing your thoughts. Any theories for the upcoming chapters?


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